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Title: Rebel Siege
Date of first publication: 1943
Author: Jim Kjelgaard (1910-1959)
Date first posted: September 19 2012
Date last updated: September 19 2012
Faded Page eBook #20120918

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Greg Weeks
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




                   The Story of a Frontier
                      Riflemaker's Son

                        Rebel Siege

                      By Jim Kjelgaard


    Illustrated by
    Charles B. Wilson

    HOLIDAY HOUSE   NEW YORK

    TEXT COPYRIGHT, 1943, 1953, BY JIM KJELGAARD
    ILLUSTRATIONS COPYRIGHT, 1953
    BY CHARLES BANKS WILSON

    NINTH PRINTING




_CONTENTS_


    Chapter 1, THE RIFLE MAKER                     9

    Chapter 2, THE TORIES RISE                    30

    Chapter 3, CABIN FIGHT                        48

    Chapter 4, THE FOOLS                          71

    Chapter 5, THE FLIGHT                         90

    Chapter 6, A CHANGE IN IAN                   110

    Chapter 7, WESTWARD TREK                     129

    Chapter 8, KITTEN TOE                        152

    Chapter 9, THE ARMY                          174

    Chapter 10, THE BULLDOG GROWLS               190

    Chapter 11, IN PURSUIT                       211

    Chapter 12, THE BATTLE                       234




    _REBEL SIEGE_

    _The Story of a Frontier
    Riflemaker's Son_




1. _THE RIFLE MAKER_

[Illustration]


Kinross McKenzie heard the pigeons, heard the beating of countless wings
like wind rising in the distance, long before he saw them. He stepped
from beneath the knobby-branched black walnut tree that shaded his
father's forge and squinted up into a cloudless, shadowless blue sky.

The noise of the pigeons' wings grew stronger, as they steadily beat
toward the gap in the mountains where Ian McKenzie lived. The vanguard
of the feathered horde came in sight. Then the log house and his
father's gun shop were suddenly in shadow as unnumbered closely packed
pigeons flew over them.

Kin turned to watch them pass, saw them go out of sight behind
Burnt-Tree Knob, and swiftly calculated the exact spot where they would
come to earth. Just beyond Burnt-Tree was a long stretch of bare rocks.
Beyond that was Santaree Creek, and on its borders was a mighty beech
grove whose last year's harvest had been disturbed very little. The
pigeons would light in the beeches, and they were hardly seven miles
across the mountains. Kin looked wistfully at the cabin, and at the shop
where his father kept the rifles he made. If only he could have the rest
of the day off ....

But he couldn't. It seemed as though every man in the Carolinas wanted a
gun nowadays, and his father would never consent to Kin's taking even an
hour off. There was the forge to tend, and stocks to shape, and tarred
rope to wrap around and burn off wooden stocks so they'd look like curly
maple, and ... A sudden blow on the side of his head sent him
reeling. Kin looked up to see his bearded father standing beside him.

"Didna I tell ye to keep the forge burnin' while I went to the stream?"
Ian McKenzie demanded.

"I did." It was marvelous, the way anyone as big as Ian could come upon
a man so unawares.

"Aye?" Ian said dourly. "Look at it."

Kin looked. The forge's fire box contained a mass of black charcoal from
which thin wisps of smoke arose. Yet it couldn't have been more than a
minute ago, anyway not _much_ more, that he had looked around to see the
pigeons. He scratched his head.

"How did it get that way?"

Ian spat. "I dinna know what you young'uns are comin' to. If ye really
need an explanation, I can tell ye that the fire went low because ye had
yer mind on the pigeons. Ye're fourteen, an' it's high time ye were
thinkin' like a man instead o' gawkin' at a flight o' pigeons for a fair
half hour. When I was a lad an' my father was teachin' me the gunsmith's
trade ... But build the fire up, Kin, an' don't mind that little
clout on the knob. Ye know yer old father too well to think that he
meant anything by it."

"Sure, I know," Kin grinned.

He grasped the handles of the bellows and diligently began to work them
back and forth. The wisps of smoke that drifted up from the charcoal
gathered volume, and a little flame broke through. The flame leaped
higher, and the black charcoal in the fire pot became a mass of glowing
coals.

Kin stole a covert glance at his father, a troubled man these days. Kin
knew, without understanding why anyone should be bothered by anything
that touched his life so little, that Ian worried deeply over the tales
that drifted up here into the Blue Ridge, tales of violence and
savagery, of British Dragoons and German Yagers pouring into America to
march and battle and kill the colonists who were in revolt against the
rule of Mother England. Still, just over the mountains the Cherokees
were usually battling and marching, and they would have done a good bit
more killing had it not been for the Kentucky rifles that the mountain
gunsmiths made and the mountain men shot. Kin knew that even now his
father had orders for a score of rifles. He pumped harder.

Ian picked up a half-finished barrel and brought it over to the forge.
He thrust the long ribbon of wrought iron into the fire, heated it a
glowing red, and pounded it around an iron mandrel. When he had formed
another inch of barrel he knocked the mandrel out, cooled the barrel and
the mandrel in water, and came back to re-heat the barrel.

"Tell me why I knocked the mandrel out," he ordered.

"So you wouldn't forge it right into the barrel," Kin said correctly.

His father grunted approval. "And now some heat, boy."

Inch by inch the ribbon of wrought iron was shaped around the mandrel
and forged into a perfect rifle barrel. Kin picked up the reamer, and
began the tedious task of turning it through the forty-two inch
wrought-iron tube. He watched the shiny, hard little chips that the
reamer cut out falling at his feet, thick as the pigeons gathering food
in the forest. He wondered if the pigeons were still ... But there
wasn't any hope of going hunting.

When the barrel was properly reamed, Kin carried it over to the rifling
bench. None but the sure hand of Ian McKenzie could rifle the barrels he
made, and Kin stood idly by while the rifling tool cut into the barrel
the grooves that would make the ball fly true. Ian looked up to frown,
and Kin instantly concentrated all his attention on the rifling.

But when Ian resumed his work, Kin looked at his father's face and
worried. Ian McKenzie was not the carefree, fun-loving man who had moved
his gunsmith's shop from Pennsylvania to McKenzie's Gap. Lately he had
become more and more morose, more solemn, less inclined to laugh. Kin
thought of a dog they had once owned, that had never been able to decide
whether it wanted to hunt with Kin or Ian. Torn between two masters, it
had grown savage and ugly, and one day it had disappeared in the woods
never to be seen alive again. Kin and his father had found its skeleton
two months later. The hound had insanely attacked a great black bear,
and for its temerity had been beaten into a pulp. Every bone in its body
was broken.

Ian looked up suddenly and said, "Kinross, I wish yer mother was alive."

Kin stared, puzzled. His mother had died so long ago that he scarcely
remembered her. But he had often thought that it would be nice to have a
mother, someone to make milk cakes as Jack Boone's mother did. Once, Kin
recalled very clearly, Daniel Boone had stopped at Jack's house and left
a quantity of something called sugar. Jack's mother had made candy, and
Kin had had some. He guessed that he never would forget how good that
had tasted, much better than ordinary maple sugar or molasses.

"I wish she was alive, too," Kin said dutifully.

"Yer mother was wise, boy." His father's voice trembled. "More than once
when I would hae done wrong she bade me better. But who is to bid me
now? Who knows what is right and what is wrong in all this?"

"Don't you?" Kin asked in astonishment.

His father glanced up, and was silent for a moment.

"Aye," he said slowly. "Aye, laddie. But come on. We're sittin' here
like a couple o' woods runners with nothin' to do but sit in the sun
when there's rifles to make."

He looked at the rifled barrel on his lap. The back had to be plugged,
the touch hole drilled, and the sights, lock, and stock attached. Kin
knew that all this would be done with the painstaking care that his
father gave everything, and that the finished product would not be just
another Kentucky rifle but a McKenzie rifle--something that the
over-the-mountain settlers and Indian fighters would walk three hundred
miles for. But now the sun was settling behind the western mountains and
long shadows were enfolding the cabin.

"It's coming on night," Kin said.

For a moment Ian McKenzie sat without answering.

"It will soon be dark," Kin repeated.

Ian looked up as though the coming of another night was a startling
event, one that must be desperately met and coped with.

"Aye!" he roared. "So it is! An' ye just sittin' here lookin' at my gun!
On to your work, boy. Ye can sit an' moon for a bit before bed-time."

Kin left the shop eagerly. He was glad to be away from the onerous task
of learning the gunsmith's trade and relieved to be parted, if only for
a little while, from his troubled, glowering father. The gunsmith's
trade was a dull one. A man stood over a forge or rifling bench all day
long and gave his heart and soul to the making of a perfect weapon. Then
somebody came along to buy it and had all the fun. The over-the-mountain
men lived a real life, shooting buffalo, and hunting Indians, and living
exactly as they pleased. But there was never any excitement around
McKenzie's Gap. True, a party of ten Cherokees had come about a year ago
and besieged the cabin. But it had happened that Tom Boone, Joel Creed,
and Turkey-Trot Logan had been there to buy rifles. The three and his
father had each defended one of the four walls. All Kin had been allowed
to do was lie on the floor and reload rifles. When the Cherokees finally
departed, he had been forbidden to go out into the woods until the four
men had scouted around.

He had wanted to go, had wanted to see if Turkey-Trot would scalp the
dead Cherokees. Then the men had come back and told him that they hadn't
hit a thing. But Kin knew better. After he had permission to go out, he
had made his own scout around the clearing and found blood on the
leaves. He was a man now, though. His father had said so just this
afternoon, and he'd bet that the next Cherokee raid would find him
shooting his own gun instead of reloading someone else's.

He entered the forest, cool hardwoods that rose to a mighty height, and
walked on through them. He was a friend of these woods. He knew where
the squirrels played, where the buck deer came to grow new horns, and
where the black bears wallowed like pigs in their mud holes. Yes, they
were his woods, and once his imagination had peopled them with a strange
assortment of savage beasts and men. But that was long ago, when he had
been just a child playing games. A man couldn't get excited about
imaginary Cherokees, when there were real ones not too far away. And it
was prudent to be alert even here. There were whispers of men who had to
skulk through these woods unseen, and who would bear no interference
with their comings and goings. Kin had never seen any of these people
who traveled by night. But twice he had found strange tracks in the
woods.

A tinkling, silvery sound drifted through the trees and Kin turned in
its direction. He found his father's yellow, broken-horned cow switching
away the flies in the shade of a huge gum tree, and cut a small switch
in case old Bonnie needed any urging to make her go home. But this night
she needed none, and the bell on her neck tinkled cheerily as she struck
a bee-line toward the clearing.

The yellow cow chose her own placid pace through the forest back to the
clearing, and ambled up to the rough-hewn stanchion where she was milked
every morning and every night. Kin draped a twisted grass rope over her
neck, took the milk pail down from the wooden peg on which it hung,
kicked the milking stool up close to Bonnie's left side, and sat down on
it with the pail between his legs. With an expertness born of long
practice he leaned his head against her soft flank and began stripping
the milk from her udder. As it foamed in the pail, Bonnie switched her
tail from side to side.

Suddenly she stepped backward. Kin murmured, "So--o, Bonnie," and tried
to continue milking. But the cow side-stepped, tossed her head, and blew
through her nostrils. Kin arose, set the half-filled pail aside, and
watched her. Bonnie's head was raised, her eyes were questing, and her
ears were cocked forward. Kin stared in the direction she was looking,
and strained his ears. He neither heard nor saw anything. But something
was coming up the trail that skirted the edge of his father's clearing.
And it was something strange to Bonnie, or she would not have shown
alarm.

Kin untied the cow, led her around to the rear of the cabin where she
could not be seen from the trail, and went back for the milk. As he
picked up the pail, he saw Ian sitting on a block of firewood before the
door. His father was entirely relaxed, puffing contentedly on a corncob
pipe with a reed stem. Something strange was coming--anything strange
was probably hostile--and his father was sitting just as he had sat on
every other night. Kin had better warn him.

"Bonnie's scared!" he blurted. "Somethin's comin'!"

"Mind yerself, boy," Ian McKenzie said from the corner of his mouth.
"Take the milk in the house."

Kin carried the milk inside, and set it on the table. Four loaded rifles
leaned against the door, within reach of his father's hand. The heavy
wooden shutters were ready to swing against the cabin's glassless
windows and the loopholes were open. Ian McKenzie knew as well as Bonnie
that something strange, something possibly to be feared, moved on the
Cota Springs trail and he was ready for it. Maybe it was more Cherokees!
Kin felt a strange weakness in his stomach and knees, and looked around
to select the loophole from which he would probably fire his first shot.
He was afraid, but knew that he could fight. Kin walked back outside,
marveling that Ian could be so calm, so obviously unafraid.

"'Tis no time to lose yer head, boy," Ian said steadily. "Sit down an'
rest easy. If we're fired upon, ye know where the rifles are."

Kin sat down on the cabin's door step and wriggled his bare toes on the
packed earth. He jerked erect and almost cried out when a wild turkey
dropped from a tree into his father's field and began to feed. But the
turkey fed only a few seconds and sat bolt upright. Then it ran swiftly
into the forest. Kin strove vainly for some intimation of what the
turkey had heard or seen.

Then, at long last, it came. At first an almost indistinguishable
muffled throbbing, the sound his ears picked up was quickly translated
into the drumming of horses' hoofs. There must be, Kin decided, at least
ten of the horses and they were coming fast.

But the tenseness under which he labored gave an unreal quality to the
thudding hoofs, made them strangely unlike those of ordinary running
horses. They came to him in a measured, hollow cadence. Kin thought of a
trapped beaver that he had once seen. The trapper had hit it over the
head with a club, but had not killed it outright, and the beaver had
lain on its side drawing long, deep breaths.

"The beat o' the death drum," Ian muttered to himself.

Kin glanced at him curiously. He knew vaguely that Ian had once been a
soldier, and that a death drum was beaten when another soldier was
executed. But now that he thought of it, the timed rhythm of the
running horses _was_ like a drum. Kin's hand stole inside the door, and
drew comfort from the feel of a loaded rifle there. He clutched the
rifle tighter as the first of the mounted men swept into view.

He was a gorgeously uniformed officer mounted on a superb stallion. Kin
gaped at his plumed hat, his scarlet coat, the polished leather that
adorned his uniform, and the saber that dangled from his side. He must
be a mighty man to have such a horse and such a uniform! The twelve men
following him were only a little less brilliantly attired and mounted,
and all carried rifles slung across their saddles. At a smart trot,
looking neither to the right nor to the left, they swept across the
clearing, and into the forest on the other side. Kin watched them out of
sight, and continued to listen until the beat of the horses' hoofs was
only a dying echo.

"What are British soldiers doing here?" he gasped.

Ian McKenzie shook his head, and it seemed to Kin that he had never seen
his father look more weary.

"'Tis little they know," Ian said bitterly. "I had hoped that we'd be
spared this. They have come to hold the country for the King. But is it
the King's country, or does it belong to the men who made it? Mountain
men dinna quake at the sight o' a uniform and saber. Nor do dragoons
give way before a shaken tomahawk an' an Indian yell. There'll be blood
in plenty shed, an' for what? There'll be murder an' pillage, an' for
what? For somethin', somethin' I dinna know. But I hae ways to find
out."

It was an impassioned, excited outburst, a revealing glimpse of the
gnawing canker that Ian carried in his bosom, but it made little sense
to Kin. He looked sharply at his father.

"What do you mean?"

"Ye'll find out," Ian McKenzie said. "An' the later ye find out, the
longer ye'll be happy. Do ye now put food on the table. There'll be no
work tomorrow, boy, for I'm ridin' to Gilbert Town."

Kin built up the fire on the hearth, and set corn cake to baking before
it. He broiled venison steaks on the hot coals, and put the simple fare
on the table, along with butter and mugs of Bonnie's rich milk. The
dragoons had come and gone, and their memory was exciting. But his
father had said that he was going to Gilbert Town tomorrow, and that was
an all-day's ride. It would give Kin a wonderful opportunity to go see
if the pigeons were still beyond the Santaree. He ate heartily, but Ian
dawdled over the food on his plate. When the pewter dishes were washed,
Kin was more than ready to stretch out on his pallet. When he fell
asleep, his father was still moodily hunched before the embers.

He was awakened in the pre-dawn darkness by his father moving about. Ian
murmured softly under his breath because there were no live coals on the
hearth, and he laid tinder impatiently. His flint and steel sparked, and
the tinder caught fire. Kin watched him make fresh corn cake and warm
some of the venison that was left over from last night. Kin lay very
still, pretending to be asleep, while his father ate. Ian would not
awaken him, but he might forbid Kin to leave the clearing if he knew
that he was already awake. Ian caught up one of the rifles, picked up
his powder horns and bullet pouch, and went out the door. The thudding
of his roan saddle horse's hoof beats drifted back through the
just-awakening day.

Kin rolled from his pallet and gulped the remnants of food that Ian had
left. It was not enough, but he was too impatient to seek out the
pigeons to prepare a proper breakfast. He snatched up the pail and ran
out to milk Bonnie. Then he untied the old cow, to wander and graze at
will in the forest until next milking time, and set the pail of milk in
the spring to keep cool. The day, a satisfactorily long one, was all his
now.

He took his rifle down from the buck-horn rack where he kept it and
carried it over to the dying fire for a final inspection before setting
out--a man's gun had better be in good working order. The rifle, a .30
caliber with a forty-two inch barrel, was a beautiful piece, one that
Ian McKenzie had labored on for three solid weeks before giving it to
his son. The barrel was made of the finest iron that the Mott Iron Works
could produce. The stock was genuine curly maple, and the lock had been
manufactured by the famous Gulcher. Ian had adjusted and readjusted the
sights until Kin could split a hair with the gun at fifty yards.

Finding it in satisfactory working order, Kin took a ball from a
buckskin pouch, and laid it in the palm of his hand. He removed the plug
from the end of his powder horn, and spilled over the ball enough powder
to cover it. The powder was poured down the gun from the muzzle end. Kin
produced a coarse cloth patch from the pouch, spit on it, and folded it
around the ball so that the patch enclosed the bullet like a little
sack. He rammed the patched bullet down on top of the powder,
automatically repeating his father's loading instructions.

"A spit patch is better than a grease patch. Grease leaves a dirty ring
around your gun muzzle, and covers up the fouling in the bore. Besides,
some time you might not have any grease, and you can usually manage to
spit. Be sure to get the ball dead center in the patch or it will fly
crooked, and learn to load your gun in eighteen seconds flat!"

Finally Kin filled the priming pan, hung his powder horn and bullet
pouch on his belt, and set out.

A buck deer, grazing at the edge of his father's field, raised its head
and snorted. Catching man scent it wheeled, and with white tail high
over its back dashed toward the forest. Kin snapped the rifle to his
shoulder and drew a bead on the buck. His finger tightened on the
trigger, but relaxed again. Killing the buck would mean that at least
two hours would be lost dressing and skinning it, and he did not want to
lose two hours out of his first holiday he had enjoyed in nearly a
month. Besides, a buck could be had any time, and the pigeons were still
beyond the Santaree.

Kin walked slowly and cautiously, keeping among the trees as much as
possible and hurrying only when he had to cross an open space. The
country here was as safe as any. But there were strangers who traveled
only at night in these woods. There might be Cherokees, and now that the
dragoons were here nobody knew what was going to happen.

Kin came to the top of Burnt-Tree Knob, and crouched behind one of the
huge, fire-killed trunks that kept a skeleton watch over the long
stretch of bare rocks sloping to the creek. It was five hundred yards
from here to the creek, and Kin would have to detour around the bare
rocks if he did not want to be seen. Probably there was no danger. But
there might be. Kin ducked back into the forest and made his way south.
When he came again to the top of the mountain green forest trees stood
between him and the Santaree. Skulking from trunk to trunk, he made his
way toward the grove where the pigeons were feeding.

Suddenly he stopped. Through the spaced trunks he caught occasional
glimpses of the gently flowing Santaree. A huge tree had fallen on its
bank, and on its trunk sat a girl with her arms clasped about her knees.
Her long, dark hair fell in two braids down her back. She was dressed in
Indian buckskins, and like an Indian, she was tanned a deep brown. Kin
knew her, Molly Faris of Gilbert Town, and the scandal of that sedate
village because, instead of sitting at home and learning the graces that
befitted a lady, she much preferred hunting, fishing, and running
through the woods.

Kin's attention was drawn to the lean man beside her. He wore a round,
crowned hat with a broad brim, a coarse gray coatee of mixed cotton and
wool, dark linsey-woolsey trousers that clung tightly to his muscular
legs, hobnailed boots, and a red cotton handkerchief tied loosely around
his neck. He was Tanse Willard, who had been a noted Indian fighter
before the war started, and who had since then gone off to fight the
British. Nobody knew more about the forest than Tanse. He had often
taken Kin hunting, and was the one personal connection the boy had with
the war. The report had come through that Tanse had been killed at
Charleston. But here he was, big as life, mooning at Molly Faris.

Suddenly Kin saw something else, down the Santaree. It was the merest
bit of color, a flash of red. He gazed steadily in that direction, and
saw the red again. A half-breed Cherokee who had earned the unsavory
name of Stink-Hard Joe came into view and turned to beckon to someone
behind him. A British officer and a half dozen armed dragoons appeared.
Stink-Hard Joe gestured with his hands, and the officer nodded. They
knew Tanse and Molly were near, but did not know exactly how near. And
Tanse was wholly unaware of his danger. Neither the British nor the two
on the log enjoyed the wide sweep of vision that Kin's hill afforded
him.

Kin knelt behind a tree and rested his rifle against its trunk. He took
careful aim, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked, and Tanse
Willard's hat flew from his head. Then Tanse and Molly were gone,
disappearing as suddenly and completely as the Indians whose lore both
knew so well.

Kin took another ball from his bullet pouch, measured the proper charge
of powder by pouring it from the powder horn over the ball, and
reloaded the rifle. But Stink-Hard Joe had located the source of the
shot, and was coming fast with the British soldiers close behind him.
There wasn't time to run for it. Kin raised the rifle, and centered the
front sight squarely on Stink-Hard Joe's chest.

"Stay back!" he gritted.

The half-breed hesitated, and fell back. The British officer came up,
and the dragoons formed a line behind him. The officer fixed Kin with a
half-amused, half-scornful glance.

"Ho, my little firebrand," he said calmly. "What did you shoot at?"

"A squirrel."

"Where is it?"

"I missed."

"Hm-m, missed with a rifle like that?" He took a tentative step forward.
"Let me see the gun."

"Keep your hands off!" Kin snapped. "Nobody but me handles my gun!"

"Oh, come now."

The officer took another step forward. Kin whipped the rifle toward him,
and pulled the hammer back. Then suddenly he trembled at the thought of
the thing that he had been about to do. He couldn't shoot down an
unarmed man, even though he had six soldiers at his back. The British
officer grasped the rifle's muzzle, turned it, and plucked it away.

"Give me that!" Kin flared.

"I hardly think it's the proper weapon for you. You might be tempted to
shoot at more 'squirrels.' By the way, my rebel chip, perhaps you'd
better do a little serious thinking. You're young, but not too young to
swing from an oak branch. What's your name?"

"None of your business!"

"His name Mick-Kenzie, Lieutenant All-Aire," Stink-Hard Joe said.

"Oh, one of the hard-headed Scots, eh? Well, McKenzie, take my advice
and think. We'll see you again."

The British wheeled and started back down the Santaree. Kin watched them
go, while tears of rage and frustration rose in his eyes. They had his
gun, his beloved rifle, and a man was nothing without a gun. The
whipping his father would certainly give him was as nothing compared to
the fact that he had lost it. Maybe he should have shot while he had the
chance; Turkey-Trot Logan would have. But shooting a man was not the
same as shooting a buck or pigeon. Kin gritted his teeth.

"I'll get my gun back!" he vowed. "Somehow and some way I'll get it
back!"




2. _THE TORIES RISE_

[Illustration]


The sun had passed its zenith and was starting its dip westward when Kin
got home. Bonnie was standing in the shade of the gun shop, switching
her tail to keep the flies away, but the split-rail pasture where his
father's saddle horse grazed was still empty.

Kin threw himself down in the grass beside Bonnie. He put one hand over
his eyes, and gave himself up to the bitterness within him. Ever since
he and his father had come here to McKenzie's Gap his eyes and thoughts
had been on the west, the wilderness that began here at their very door.
It was glorious to know that, as soon as you were a man, you were free
to go into that wilderness, and that only your own hardihood and courage
limited what you could find there.

But the first, and almost the only, requisite of life in the west was a
rifle. Kin had pictured himself leaving his father's home to join the
Long Hunters who did everything that a man should do. But his rifle, as
fine a one as could be found on the frontier, was an integral part of
that picture. For him, no other gun could take its place.

Bonnie tossed her head when Kin sat up suddenly. He looked west, toward
the Santaree, and his face set in the determination of the breed from
which he had sprung.

"I'll get it back," he said. "No man will ever take my gun away from me
and keep it."

Kin got to his feet, drove Bonnie to the milking station, and milked. He
set the pail of milk in the spring and looked down the trail. Ian would
be home soon. He would certainly be hungry, and a change from venison
might help to soften the beating that was going to be Kin's when Ian
found out about the lost rifle.

Kin took a fishhook, another of his father's products, and tied it on a
line. He walked to the edge of the clearing, and lay full length on the
bank of a sluggish little stream that wandered there. Rolling up his
sleeves, he reached into the water and overturned a flat rock. A brown
crayfish scuttled backward. Kin dropped his opened left hand behind it,
and flicked a finger at the crayfish's claws. The little crustacean
backed into his left hand. Kin closed it, brought his captive to land,
and tied it on the hook.

He whirled the line about his head and cast. The crayfish splashed on
the water, and the ripples were still spreading from the place where it
hit when a bass rose to take it. The line moved slowly through the
water, and Kin paid out more from the coil in his hand. When the line
stopped moving he gave the bass fifteen seconds to swallow the crayfish
and struck hard.

There was a mighty tug on the line's end as the hooked bass started
upstream. Kin turned him. The bass leaped clear of the water in a vain
effort to rid himself of the hook, and surged downstream. He fought
mightily, with bulldog courage and endurance. But after ten minutes Kin
played him in to shore and reached down to slip his fingers through the
gills of a six-pound small-mouth.

He lifted the fish clear of the water and carried it to the cabin. With
a hunting knife he removed its head and the spiny fin on its back, and
split it to the tail. He took away the backbone, went out to the wood
pile for a fresh piece of green ash, laid the fish on it, and set it on
the embers at one side of the fireplace. The bass would cook, but the
green wood would not burn through to let it scorch. Kin peeled a dozen
potatoes, and dropped them into a kettle of boiling water. With a dish
of butter in one hand and a knife in the other he sat on an upended
block of wood basting the bass while darkness slowly descended. Then,
suddenly, he reached down to shove the bass away from the embers and
leap to the rifle rack on the wall.

Through the open door came the rapid pound of running horses on the
trail. Kin took down a long rifle, and held it in his hand while he
listened. It was hard to tell how many horses were coming, but there was
more than one. Kin grasped another rifle, and slipped through the door.
It wasn't Cherokees because they came like panthers in the night, unseen
and unheard. But it might be more of the plundering British soldiers.
Kin set his mouth. The British had all the plunder they were going to
get from the McKenzies!

Keeping close to the dark wall, Kin crept to the end of the cabin and
crouched behind an outjutting log. He rested a rifle on the log, and
sighted toward the fire-lighted door. If whoever was coming intended to
enter the cabin they would be framed for an instant in the light, and
whatever action was necessary could be decided on in that instant. Then
two horsemen came into the clearing, and Kin took the sighted rifle
down. The leading horse was his father's roan, and nobody but Ian sat a
saddle in exactly the way this rider was sitting. Twenty feet behind
galloped a pure white horse with an unknown rider. They turned from the
trail, and rode to the pasture. With a rifle in either hand Kin went
forward, and reached the gate just as Ian was swinging from the saddle.

"Who's this coming?" the unknown rider asked sharply.

His hand dived into a saddle bag, and came up with a long pistol. Kin
lifted a rifle with one hand, but Ian intervened.

"Meet my son, Kinross," he said. "Kinross, this is Mr. Elmo Bladen. He
was venturin' to Gilbert Town, an' I knew he'd find but lean wayfarin'
along the road this time of night. So I invited him to partake of our
poor fare an' hospitality."

"It's not so poor," Kin answered sourly.

"The man's our guest!" Ian thundered. "Mind yer manners, laddie!"

Elmo Bladen laughed, a deep and hearty but somehow unpleasant sound like
that of a grunting pig.

"The lad's got a ready tongue, eh, McKenzie? There's nought like spirit.
I always did say that mine got me where I am today. An' I'll wager that
he's got hot vittles ready for his tired father an' his father's com'ny
too."

"I have, Mr. Bladen," Kin said with stiff politeness, "an' you're
welcome to what there is."

"An' could I use it?" he guffawed. "I'll say I could!"

He dismounted, jerked the saddle and bridle from the white horse,
slapped it on the rump as it passed through the pasture gate, and walked
toward the cabin. Kin stood looking wonderingly at Ian, who was rubbing
down the roan. It was unwritten law that a man should care for his horse
before himself, yet Elmo Bladen had gone into the cabin apparently
without even a thought for his sweating mount. Ian handed Kin the curry
comb, and Kin curried the white horse.

When they entered the cabin Elmo Bladen was sitting before the fire with
one of Ian's rifles across his knees. He wiped the corner of his mouth,
down which a generous portion of the bass had just disappeared, and
stood up. Kin looked at him, a fattish man with red cheeks and eyes and
unkempt bristles of black hair.

"Nice gun ya got there, McKenzie," he said affably. "Ya wouldn't care to
trade it, eh?"

"No."

Elmo Bladen shrugged. "Well, I'll get me a rifle of some kind when I get
to Gilbert Town. Say, know what I'm gonna do when I get there?"

"If ye care to tell us."

"Sure I care," Elmo Bladen said expansively. "I'm gonna join the
British, an' I bet I get me a commission in the militia before I'm done.
Some of these rich rebel Whigs hereabouts is gonna have less land an'
money when we get done with 'em. One thing I will say, you'll find Elmo
Bladen on the winnin' side in any kind of ruckus."

"Ye seem sure the British will win."

"Faugh! How can they lose? Ya know that most of the damned rebels are
bottled up in Charleston. After that falls who besides a few guerillas
like this Sumter will be able to fight? The King, God bless him, will
rule his own again!"

Ian's voice was low and strained. "General Lincoln surrendered
Charleston on May 12, near seven weeks past."

"I told ya so! I told ya so!" Elmo Bladen cried exultantly. "Our side
has won, an' the damned rebels are gone ganders. How come ya by this
knowledge, friend McKenzie?"

"I found it out in Gilbert Town, where I journeyed today to swear anew
my allegiance to the King. I would hae known it sooner, but I hae not
been venturin' far from my gun makin'. Let us eat now."

Elmo Bladen grinned slyly as he sat down at the table. "Trust a Scot to
land butter-side up, eh? I been back in the woods myself, doin' a little
business with the Injuns an' gettin' furs dirt cheap. Who commands the
British here?"

"Major Ferguson, an' a smartly turned-out soldier he is."

"How many does he command?"

"About a hundred an' fifty regulars, an' a body of militia, of which
he's recrootin' more. They're flockin' in now that the army is here to
protect 'em from the Whigs. An' on second thought, Bladen, though I
wouldna hurry a guest from my house, mayhap ye had best start as soon as
ye hae had yer fill o' food, if only to protect yer own interests. Every
mother's son who's sidin' in wi' Ferguson expects a commission in the
militia. There'll be naught left when ye get there."

Elmo Bladen thumped the table with his fist. "Sound advice, McKenzie!
I'll start!"

He leaped up and, as he started for the door, calmly took up the
Kentucky rifle that he had been examining.

Ian said steadily, "No doubt ye didna hear me when I said that I want to
keep the rifle. It is no for trade or sale."

"Oh yes, oh yes," Elmo Bladen laughed, and laid the rifle down on the
table. "But ya know how it is with a man who's mind is occupied. I had
it in mind that we had already traded. I thought I gave ya my watch."

"A natural mistake. Good-bye, Bladen, an' good fortune."

"Good-bye, McKenzie."

He stamped out the door, and slammed it behind him. A moment later came
the hoof beats of his horse, thudding away into the night. Ian sat
gazing into the fire. His face was drawn, and when he looked up,
inexpressibly weary.

"Kin," he said, "there goes as great a fool as ye'll ever see, an' as
great a rogue. He would kill for gain."

"I didn't like him," Kin said.

"Nor did I. But I could do naught but ask him in. He was hungry, an'
needed a rest. I'm ashamed that I even hinted he should leave. But I am
happy that he didna spend the night."

Kin sat squirming on his chair. Ian had been tired when he came in, and
occupied with a guest, and he hadn't yet looked toward the buck-horn
rack where Kin's rifle usually rested. But he would look, and it was
best to tell him what had happened rather than face his wrath and fumble
for excuses when he found it out himself.

"I lost my rifle today," Kin blurted apprehensively.

Ian sat upright, and turned to face his son. "Well?"

"I went to hunt the pigeons that passed over yesterday," Kin said.
"Tanse Willard was sittin' on a log by the Santaree. He was, he was
watchin' somethin'. Stink-Hard Joe an' seven British soldiers was comin'
up the creek. I shot through Tanse's hat to warn him. He got away. But
the British took my rifle."

"Why did you warn Tanse?" Ian asked.

"He ... I like him."

Ian turned back to face the fire, and rested his chin in cupped hands.
For a moment he was silent.

"Ye should hae a drubbin'," he said. "But I canna find it in me to give
ye one. There are some qualities that must be kept if anythin' at all is
worth livin' for, an' one is a man's feelin' for a friend. Ye did what I
would hae done. But it's up to ye to get a new rifle for yerself."

For a moment Kin sat studying this unpredictable father of his who
sometimes deviated so surprisingly from his normal routine. But the
relief he felt was tempered by a new anxiety.

"Did you take the British pledge because you think they'll win?" he
asked.

"Now ye do get a drubbin'!" Ian roared. He half rose, but settled back
in his chair. "No. I guess not, Kin. It's little ye know what ye asked.
I was born a subject o' the King, I pledged my loyalty to him before ye
were on this earth. Ye do no swear on an' off such things lightly,
remember that! Besides, it is no foregone conclusion that the British
will win. I hae it in mind that Lord Cornwallis an' his officers know
little enou' o' the temper o' the men with which they meddle. They're no
coastal planters, who either want the King's protection or at the best
make only a half-hearted resistance. The Whigs who have flocked to
Sumter, who live on half rations when they can get 'em an' who sleep in
the swamps, do that not because they love a yoke. The men who hae gone
beyond the mountains went there because they want to be free to mind
their own affairs. They would hae taken no part in this war had not
short-sighted British stirred the Indians against 'em. But now that they
are in it, 'twill be to the last man."

"Will there be fighting hereabouts?" Kin asked eagerly.

"Aye, an' bloody an' bitter it will be. Ye just saw a fair example o'
what's gone off to join the British, unprincipled cut-throats who
neither believe in God nor fear a devil so long as they hae enou' o'
their kind to snarl wi' them. An' they are only part o' what the British
will muster. There'll be wi' Ferguson Tories who believe as firmly in
the King's cause as the Rebels do in theirs, an' they'll fight as hard
for it. There'll be soldiers of the wind who care not how any battle
goes so long as they get their fill of fightin' an' pillage. There will
be the regulars, among a million pounds of which there's not an ounce of
cowardice. Make no mistake about it, Ferguson will ha' wi' him as fierce
a pack of wolves as ever fought over a deer. An' in no way whatever will
they be better men than the Rebels. But go to bed now an' forget talk of
war an' killin'. Ye hae work for the mornin', an' must be rested."

Kin went to his pallet, and lay watching Ian stare moodily into the
dying fire. After ten minutes Ian rose, set the latch on the door, and
sought his own bed. For half an hour he tossed about on the deer-skin
mattress. Finally his gentle snoring and even breathing told that he was
asleep.

But Kin could not sleep. His mind was a whirl of questions for which
there were no proper answers. McKenzie's Gap had been a dull enough
place, but Kin had not known until now that he would have lived no other
place if he could. Every one of the great plans he had made for himself
had his father's house as a starting point. From it he would go into the
west, cast his lot with the men who had already gone there and help them
do whatever they were doing to build the country up. Now the British
were here to shape the country and its inhabitants to their own designs.
They had taken his rifle, and would take more of what was not theirs if
they so desired. And yet, for some reason that he could not fully
understand, his father had gone off to swear allegiance to these
red-coated invaders.

Kin rose on his pallet and stared steadily toward his father's bed. Ian
was motionless, with one hand thrown over his eyes. When Kin stamped his
bare foot on the floor, Ian stirred but did not awaken. Kin slipped
softly from the pallet, and tiptoed across the room. He went to the
door, lifted the latch, and walked into a moon-sprayed night. For a
moment he stood staring across the clearing.

It seemed exactly the same as it had on every other moonlit night. The
adze marks on the rough-hewn timbers in his father's work shop were very
plain. The roan horse was standing with lowered head in one corner of
the pasture. The trail to Gilbert Town was white under the moon, and the
trees a silvery-yellow.

Kin walked from the house into the meadow, and the heavy dew on the
grass was pleasantly cool to his bare feet. He went to the edge of the
meadow, and on into the forest. He had no clear idea of what he was
going to do, or why he was going. All he knew was that he wanted to be
alone in his woods, to see if somehow and some way he might work out an
answer to the baffling problems that confronted him.

But there was no peace in the woods tonight. From far off a rabbit
squealed as a hunting fox or bobcat leaped on it. Even the animals were
at war. Kin walked on to where a huge elm rose high above all the other
trees in the forest, sat down on one of its knobby roots, and rested his
cheek on his right hand. He had to get his rifle back from Lieutenant
Allaire. Maybe he could go into the British camp and steal it. He could
pick a pail of berries, and enter the camp on the pretense of selling
them.

Kin rose suddenly, and backed against the elm's trunk as a shadowy
figure appeared before him. He felt about with his bare feet for a club
or rock, anything with which he might defend himself.

"Kin, it's me. Tanse."

Tanse Willard, who had come as silently as one of the stalking foxes or
bobcats that made their lairs in the forest, walked nearer, and leaned
on his long rifle. The reckless grin on his face was plain in the
moonlight.

"Tanse!" Kin gasped. "What are you doin' here? It--it ain't safe!
There's British soldiers hereabouts!"

"That's one reason I'm here," Tanse said casually. "The other reason is
to sort of say much obliged for that shot you made over on the Santaree
this mornin'. But I didn't cal'clate on seein' you before mornin'. You
got any notion who told them British Molly an' me was there?"

"Stink-Hard Joe. Why?"

"Just somethin' for my memory book," Tanse said grimly. "I sort of like
to keep such things. Now another thing, do you know how many men this
Ferguson's got with him?"

"My father said a hundred an' fifty regulars, an' he's recruitin'
militia. Tanse, you better get out of here. There was a man named Bladen
at the house tonight. He's gone off to join Ferguson, an' he said the
British was sure to win."

"Bladen, eh?" Tanse Willard said. "My memory book's buildin' up fast.
But friend Bladen's sort of countin' his pat'idges before they're in the
pot. Sumter's doin' a great job with what he has to do with. An' Gates
is on his way with an army. We're kind of figurin' on chasin' Cornwallis
an' all his little sojers right into the Atlantic when he gets here.
Gates licked 'em at Saratoga, an' he'll lick 'em in Carolina."

He spoke with a profound conviction and a deep confidence that imparted
itself to Kin. Gates must be a mighty man, to inspire such respect in
Tanse Willard.

"Can Gates lick Cornwallis?" Kin asked.

"That he can--an' will. Kin, which side are you on?"

"On yours. But my father's with the British."

"That makes it all the better," Tanse said thoughtfully. "Nobody will be
ready to suspect you. Kin, Ike Shelby an' Colonel McDowell are down from
over the mountains with their riflemen. To help 'em, Clarke's comin'
back from where he was chased into Georgia. Graham, Andy Hampton, an'
Major Robertson will be with 'em. They'll have upwards of a thousand men
amongst 'em, an' they aim to worry the British as much as they can until
Gates comes. Then they'll join him for the final push. You're 'bout
fourteen, ain't you?"

"Goin' on fifteen."

"There's thirteen-year-olders in the army. Sumter's got two dozen picked
riflemen not more'n a year older'n you."

"Could I join Sumter?" Kin asked eagerly.

"No. You can't," Tanse interrupted. "We need you for somethin' else. I'm
off on a scout to watch Cornwallis. When I come back I'll have news. If
you hear a she fox yell like they do in matin' time, an' don't do in
late summer, will you come to this tree as quick as your legs will carry
you?"

"Yes," Kin breathed.

"Good. Well, I'll be trailin' along."

Tanse Willard melted into the forest and blended with the shadows. Kin
stood staring after him, breathless and wildly happy. Everything was not
lost, and Elmo Bladen didn't know what he was talking about. Gates was
coming with a great army. He would drive the British away and all would
be as it had been before. Kin strode dreamily back to the cabin and
crawled on his pallet with a light heart.

As July melted slowly into the golden days of August, Kin worked about
the clearing and helped his father make guns. Even when the long working
day ended, he no longer followed his former habit of roaming through the
forest. When Tanse called, he would not call in vain.

The call came suddenly and unexpectedly in the mist-ridden dimness of an
early August dawn. Across the clearing it floated, the lonely wail of a
she fox in want of a mate. Ian, who had grown even more haggard and
tired in the past three weeks, looked up from his bowl of breakfast
porridge and fell to eating again. Kin sat up, and tried to speak.

Ian looked up a second time.

"What's the worry, laddie? Did ye think yon fox a spook?"

"Can I go look for it?" Kin blurted.

"Aye. But be back within the hour."

Kin streaked through the door and raced toward the forest. He flashed
among the trees to the great elm that was the appointed rendezvous, and
drew up short.

A lathered brown horse stood beside the tree. Its head drooped, and
great strips of froth trailed from its mouth. Tanse Willard leaned
against the tree. One arm braced his body, but the other hung bloody and
useless at his side. A bullet had plowed a furrow across his temple, and
blood had caked in his beard. His eyes were fire-red, his face haggard
and desperate. He saw Kin, and staggered toward him.

"Kin," he panted. "Go down to Reed Bowie's house! Tell him that
Cornwallis met Gates at Camden yesterday, an' Gates' whole army was
wiped out! Reed must get word to McDowell an' Shelby or they'll be cut
off too! Kin, do you understand?"

Kin nodded dumbly, and passed an arm about Tanse's shoulder.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Tanse shouted. "I don't need help! I've
got to warn Sumter! Go, man! Go!"

Kin turned around. Without looking back he started for Reed Bowie's
cabin at a dead run.




3. _CABIN FIGHT_

[Illustration]


Kin reached the old trail, and fought his way through the tangle of
vines and brambles growing beside it. He raised a hand to wipe the sweat
from his face and was surprised to see blood seeping from his wrist. For
a moment he looked stupidly at it, and glanced back at the elm where he
had met Tanse Willard. The events of the past twenty minutes seemed like
a dream. Kin looked again at the blood on his bramble-raked wrist. The
sight sobered him.

This was no dream. Gates' mighty army, on its way to drive the British
out of the south, had been wiped out. Tanse Willard, back in the woods
with a spent horse, a broken arm, and nobody knew what other wounds, was
going to warn Sumter and had sent Kin to warn the rest of the Rebels.

He thrust his hands in his pockets and started walking. He wanted to
run, to race madly as long as his lungs could draw a breath and his feet
carry him. But running on this trail, where either British dragoons or
Tory militiamen might be encountered, was the surest way to draw
attention to himself. It was the fool's way, and he had been enough of a
fool to tear so recklessly through the forest.

It was best to walk openly, with no attempt at concealment. Kin
remembered the time he had gone to visit Jack Boone, and a fox had come
out of the woods into the Boone clearing. Since it was summer, and fox
pelts were valueless, no one had given it more than a casual glance. All
had thought it a young and stupid fox crossing the field. But, when it
was passing the chicken coop, it had leaped sideways, seized a chicken,
and dashed to safety in the woods. Kin would take a lesson from that
fox; walk innocently toward his objective and, if it became necessary,
run after he reached it.

He swung down a steep little pitch and crossed Purling Creek on the
hewn log that served as bridge. His heart began to beat a little faster,
and his tongue was a dry, twisted piece of rope in his mouth. In spite
of his intention to walk as the fox had, and to deceive anyone he might
meet into believing that he was on a perfectly harmless mission, he had
known that he could dive into the woods on either side of the trail if
that should become necessary. And, once in the woods, he had at least a
chance of eluding anyone who might chase him.

But just ahead the trail forked. The left fork swung westward, and
became a dim Indian path that only the over-the-mountain men knew
thoroughly or could find with any certainty. The right fork led to
Gilbert Town. And John Denning's clearing, the first between McKenzie's
Gap and Gilbert Town, lay where the trails forked. If he met anyone in
the clearing ... Kin thrust his hands a little deeper into his
pockets and slid his tongue between his teeth. He came to the edge of
the clearing, and knew that his fears had been justified.

Denning's place began at Purling Creek, reached nearly to the top of the
opposite hill, and both ways to bends in the trail. Denning had been
here ten years, and his clearing was more advanced than those of most of
his neighbors. The trees that had grown in it were either burned or
piled in a withering mass of trunks and twigs at the edge of the
forest. Most of the stumps had been rooted out. Denning's cabin and
barns were in the center of the clearing, almost beside the trail.
Beyond them a split-rail fence enclosed what had been five acres of
Indian corn. Kin gasped, remembering how John Denning had boasted to Ian
of that corn.

Now a herd of horses grazed in it, and evidently they had been there for
more than one day. More than half the corn was either trampled to the
ground or standing on gaunt stalks with the leaves and ears eaten away.
Kin heard the remaining corn rustle as the horses crowded through it. A
vicious little black mare kicked at a bay gelding, and sent him
scrambling toward the fence. Kin crept behind a tree, and looked at the
house.

Blue wood smoke curled from its broad stone chimney. As he watched, the
door opened, and a man with a pewter kettle in one hand and a woollen
blanket trailing behind him came out and walked toward a row of saddles
on a fence rail. He threw the pot down, and draped the blanket across
the rail. Snatching up a bridle, he went into the cornfield and came
back leading the little black mare. He folded the blanket carefully over
her back, strapped the saddle on, and went galloping down the trail.

Then, from the house, came the hearty laugh of another man. Kin
shivered. The laughter was still unpleasantly like the grunting of a
pig, and was followed by the booming voice of Elmo Bladen.

"We'll come back when your husband's home, Miz Denning," he said. "Ya
got him to thank for this. If he'd of joined up with the King's men,
like he should, he'd of kept his stuff."

Kin heard a woman's voice, shrill with anger.

"Yes, come back when my husband's here--if you dare! You'll take away
something you missed this time--bullets from his rifle!"

Elmo Bladen laughed again. Then, through the open door, ten men came out
of the cabin to walk toward the cornfield where the horses were
foraging. Bladen, with a long sword slapping his thigh and a military
cap tilted at a rakish angle on his head, strode importantly before his
men. All carried rifles and wore swords. A few had bucktails in their
caps or strips of yellow cloth wound about them. The man who had gone
away on the black mare came back driving five red and white cows. He
herded them up to the barn as the others began to saddle their horses.

Kin slipped silently back into the forest. His heart was beating like a
trip hammer and perspiration bathed his forehead. The men at Denning's
were not just bandits on a periodic raid. They were Tory militiamen, a
recognized part of Ferguson's army, using their authority to loot. And
in the short time they had spent at Denning's they had all but ruined
him, destroyed ten years work! Kin thought of a horde of such men,
riding unchecked over the country like a swarm of locusts, devouring
whatever lay in their path. And nothing could be done. McDowell and
Shelby must be warned, must be told that Gates' army was destroyed and
all hope was gone, or they would be trapped too. Then there wouldn't be
anybody left except Sumter--and the best he could do was worry the
British.

Kin back-tracked to the trail, and glanced fearfully up and down it
before he scooted across into the woods again. Reed Bowie lived on the
west fork, a mile beyond Denning's. It was harder to get there through
the woods, and took much longer than it would have taken by the trail.
But to meet any of the gang commanded by Elmo Bladen would mean he
wouldn't get there at all.

He broke into a run, dodging from tree to tree and wherever he could
keeping thick bunches of rhododendrons or brambles between himself and
his back trail. He did not run blindly any more, tearing through the
brush without regard to what lay ahead. He was afraid and knew that he
was afraid. But he might have to fight, or hide, or run, and he had to
keep a cool head.

Kin came to the edge of Reed Bowie's clearing, and stared across it.
Reed was a trapper and hunter rather than a farmer. He had girdled the
trees in his clearing and hauled some of them away. The rest stood like
rattling, leafless skeletons. Wild grass and wild flowers grew tall
among them. But all about the cabin, for two hundred feet in every
direction, every bit of vegetation had been leveled to the ground. Reed
Bowie might be a careless farmer. But he was anything but careless in
other ways. Anyone intent on entering the cabin by force would have to
cross two hundred feet of open ground that held scarcely enough shelter
to protect a chipmunk.

Kin drew back, and hesitated another few seconds. Everything seemed
serene, free of danger, harmless. But was it? Turkey-Trot Logan had told
him that when everything seemed inviting the best possible course was to
stay away. Cherokees laid such ambushes, paving the way and making
everything easy until you were in the middle of their trap and unable to
get out again. Some of the men with Elmo Bladen must know all the
Cherokee tricks. Kin drew a deep breath and started running. If this was
a chance, he had to take it.

He tore wildly across the clearing, seeing only the cabin and heedless
of the branches that slapped him and the brambles that plucked at his
clothing. As he ran, everything but the cabin faded out of focus. For a
moment that stood out with cameo-like clearness, a far-off haven that
he must reach. Then the cabin faded too, and became only a shapeless
blur. Kin raced madly, and it seemed that the faster he ran the farther
away the cabin drew. Finally he was aware of a door closing and of four
walls about him. He staggered, clutching at the back of a chair to
steady himself. Everything he had seen and done this morning once more
seemed like some terrible nightmare. Then the fever in his brain was
pierced by a voice as soft and clear as a girl's.

"Sit down and rest, boy. And the next time you want to run like a
bullet-marked deer, ponder on it a bit. Then don't do it."

Kin shook his head to clear it, and blinked as he looked across the
room. An old man was sitting on a chair before a rough-hewn table. He
was dressed in a buckskin hunting shirt with fringes on the shoulders
and a star of red and blue porcupine quills worked into the collar.
Silvery hair swept back from his forehead to his shoulders, and a long,
silvery beard brushed the table. For all his age, his face was as
guileless and his eyes as gentle as those of a week-old fawn.

"I'm lookin' for Reed Bowie!" Kin blurted.

"I'm Reed Bowie. My son, Reed, has gone away to fight with the British."

Kin's stomach turned over. Reed Bowie, the friend upon whom Tanse had
depended, was with the British! This benign old grandfather could be of
little use. Kin sank into a chair, and looked up to find Reed Bowie's
eyes upon him.

"Who are you?"

"Kinross McKenzie."

"You would be Ian's son," the old man mused. "How is your father?"

"He's with the British too!" Kin said fiercely. "An' I hate him for it!
The British took my rifle."

"An unpardonable sin," the old man said gravely. "You must get it back."

Kin sprang to his feet. "I'm goin' to!" he declared. "I'm goin' to if I
have to kill every dirty Tory an' British soldier in Carolina!"

"Don't start with me," the old man said. "Only my son has gone away to
fight with the British."

"Are _you_ on our side?" Kin asked. He dreaded the answer.

"I'm helping as much as a poor old man can help. I've been over the
mountains while my son remained here. Maybe what you wanted to tell him
should be told to me."

"How do I know you ain't a Tory?"

"Be not a witness against thy neighbor without cause," Reed Bowie
chuckled. "And that brings us just about to where we started from, eh?"

A wooden shutter slapped noisily against the side of the cabin as a
stray gust of wind caught it, and swung open again. Kin glanced through
the paneless window. His jaw dropped and his eyes opened wide. Six of
the horsemen that he had seen at Denning's were coming down the trail.
Elmo Bladen led on his white horse. Just behind, crowding close to the
white horse's heels, was a lanky soldier astride the vicious little
black mare. Kin shot a suspicious glance at Reed Bowie. The old man was
gazing calmly out the window. His kindly face had not moved a muscle,
but Kin knew that his own face must reflect the fear that he felt.

"They were at Denning's when I came by!" he breathed. "They--they took
everythin' they could lay their hands on!"

Reed Bowie said with grim humor, "The Lord giveth and the Tories taketh
away. Can you use a pistol, Kinross?"

"Yes."

"Then get ready to use one."

He walked to the farther wall, pushed aside a deer-skin flap and took
down a Kentucky rifle and a flint-lock pistol. Reed Bowie had seemed a
small man when he was sitting behind the table. But standing up, he was
well over six feet. His shoulders bulged the seams of the buckskin shirt
he wore; his hips were small and his legs long. He was straight and
unbowed as Ian, but the deliberation with which he inspected the two
firearms was maddening. Kin glanced out the window, and saw the
galloping horses fan out into the clearing. Reed Bowie came back and
pressed the pistol into his hand.

"It's all ready," he said calmly.

Kin cocked the pistol and raised his arm. Maybe, he thought, if Elmo
Bladen and his Tories knew that the cabin was to be defended, they
wouldn't attack it. Or at least they might go back for reinforcements,
and give him time to see this old man to a place of safety. But his hand
trembled, and the pistol shook so badly that he was unable to draw a
good bead. Kin strove to steady himself, and was about to grip the
pistol with both hands when his arm was seized in a firm grip. Reed
Bowie's musical voice sounded in his ear.

"Don't shoot at those fellows because ..."

He leaned the long rifle over the window sill, took quick aim, and
tightened his finger on the trigger. The rifle cracked. Elmo Bladen
threw both arms straight in the air and tumbled from his saddle while
the white horse pounded on. Reed Bowie stepped back from the window.

"... because you might have missed with the pistol," he finished
calmly, "and powder and shot are hard to come by."

Five rifles cracked, and a savage yell went up from the five Tories
outside. Kin saw a lock of Reed Bowie's white hair jerk as a bullet
streaked through it. Through the open window he saw the white horse come
to a halt within forty feet of the cabin and look nervously back toward
his companions. The next moment Kin was lying on the floor with one of
Reed Bowie's moccasined feet on his chest. He squirmed and wriggled, but
could not arise.

"What are they doin'?" he whispered.

"They're coming," Reed Bowie said coolly, as he reloaded. "They're
driving their horses ahead of them for cover."

He stooped suddenly, plucked the pistol from Kin's hand, and fired.
Outside a skittish horse jumped nervously. One of the Tories shouted,
and again five bullets whistled through the window. Reed Bowie poured a
charge of powder down the muzzle of the pistol, and took a handful of
small pellets from his pocket. He poured them on top of the powder, and
rammed a patch down to hold them there. Then he resumed his post beside
the window, peering out at the Tory troopers, but making no move to
shoot.

Through the chinking in the log walls Kin heard the steady thud of the
five driven horses' hoofs, and knew that the Tories were crouching
behind those horses. When they got close enough to the cabin they would
rush it. Hot perspiration bathed Kin's body. He closed his eyes and
clenched his jaws, awaiting the final rush. The shuffling hoofs of the
driven horses seemed to be almost beside the cabin now.

Reed Bowie went into action so suddenly and unexpectedly that Kin cried
out in alarm. He thrust the pistol out the window, and pressed the
trigger. The gun roared, and a great cloud of black powder drifted back
into the cabin. A horse screamed as the shot with which the pistol had
been loaded stung his hide. Kin heard the pounding of hoofs as rearing
horses pulled at their bridles. There came the thud of one or more
galloping away, and above it all the hysterical shout of one of the
Tories, "Whoa thar! Whoa thar! Whoa thar!"

"Get out of this!" yelled another voice.

Reed Bowie calmly slid his long rifle through the window. But almost
thirty seconds elapsed before he shot. Then he brought the rifle back
in, leaned it against the wall, and took his foot from Kin's chest. Kin
shakily got to his feet, wondering if all this really could have
happened. Reed Bowie's expression had not changed. He was still the same
benign, innocent-appearing old man Kin had encountered when he burst
into the cabin.

"Did you get him?" he whispered.

"There's no need to whisper," Reed Bowie said soothingly. "The wicked
flee when no man pursueth. Kinross, if you ask him, your father will
tell you that Tories of this stamp are a curse to the country. And Whigs
of the same stamp are as great a curse. I told my son Reed that, since
he felt he must fight for the King, to join the regular army and abide
by its rules. But now do you know which side I'm on?"

"Yes!" Kin said emphatically. "I met Tanse Willard up in the woods. He'd
been on a scout. He said I should tell Reed Bowie, an' I reckon he must
of meant you, that Gates' army was wiped out at Camden. He says you
should hurry an' tell McDowell an' Shelby so they won't be caught too."

Kin swelled with the importance of his mission, and at the same time
felt a little irritation because Reed Bowie received it so calmly.

"Tanse was wounded, too," he volunteered. "I guess he must of been in
that battle, huh? But he said he was goin' off to warn Sumter...."

"Tanse'll probably do that, too," Reed Bowie murmured. "But we have a
little work to do ourselves now. I think you'd best go with me, Kinross.
I may need your help."

Kin glanced up resentfully. Reed Bowie's words seemed to have had a
double meaning: Kin needed someone to watch over him and Reed Bowie
intended to do it. Kin flushed hotly at the thought of his lying
helplessly on the floor while the old man fought off the Tories. Without
a word, he followed Reed Bowie outside, and looked toward the place
where Elmo Bladen had been shot.

The fallen Tory leader was no longer there. Either he had been only
wounded and dragged himself away or else his fleeing comrades had taken
him with them. Reed Bowie had caught Elmo Bladen's white horse, and was
riding toward the edge of the clearing, where the other five horses had
gathered in a nervous group. Kin expected to see them wheel and gallop
away. But Reed Bowie evidently understood horses as well as he did
rifles. He dismounted, and the little black mare stretched her head
toward him. One by one he approached and caught up the trailing bridles
of all five horses. Remounting the white horse, he led the rest back to
the cabin. Then he tied the little mare to a post along with the white
horse, and began stripping the saddles from the other four.

"What are you doin' that for?" Kin asked, puzzled.

"We can have no saddled horses except the two we ride. We probably will
have to cross British lines. By the way, Kinross, did you know that
you're my grandson?"

"I...? All right. But some of those Tory militiamen know me now.
They'll know I ain't your grandson."

"Do any of the British soldiers know you?"

"There's a Lieutenant Allaire. He took my gun."

"We'll risk meeting him, and Tories that may know you."

He stooped, picked up two saddles and bridles, and carried them into the
cabin. Kin brought a third saddle in, and Reed Bowie returned for the
remaining saddle and the two bridles. He laid them against the wall, and
took a stick of dry wood from beside the fireplace. With a long hunting
knife he began paring thin shavings from it and piling them against the
wall. When he had enough he took a hot ember from the smoldering fire
and laid it in the center of the shavings. They blackened at the edges,
and a thin tongue of yellow flame licked up from them. Reed Bowie laid a
few sticks of kindling on the shavings, and added more wood. The fire
leaped high, hurling itself in a hungry attack against the wall.

"Come on," Bowie said gruffly.

They walked out of the cabin, and closed the door behind them. Reed
Bowie turned to watch the blue smoke that was finding a way through
every crack and chink in the walls, and for the first time he seemed to
undergo a change. There was immeasurable sadness in his voice when he
spoke.

"It was my son's home. But my son is now my enemy."

"Why did you burn it?" Kin asked.

"This is war," the old man answered. "I want none to know that I stayed
here, and I want no enemy to find comfort and shelter here. Ride the
white horse, Kinross."

He swung himself to the black mare's back, laid the rifle across the
saddle, put the pistol in his pocket, and was away down the trail. The
four free horses strung out behind him, and Kin brought up the rear.
Reed Bowie cantered toward the west, until the sun was almost directly
overhead. Then he swung into the forest. Kin followed, into trackless
wilderness where great trees reared on all sides.

Kin studied the ground, looking for a sign of a trail or track, any
indication that man might have been here before. There were none. He
wondered at Reed Bowie's ability to pick a way through this wilderness.
They were traveling by the sun, and the sun was swinging toward the west
when they came to the top of a small knoll and looked into the distance
to see water sparkling between the trees.

"There's the river," Reed Bowie said. "And there is where we may have
trouble. British patrols are thick through here. If we reach the river
without meeting one, get across. If you start across, don't come back
for anything. But if we meet a patrol--well, we'll just have to hope
that the Lord is on our side and that our wits are in order. Are you
ready?"

"Yes."

The black mare chose her own pace down the hill, until they came to a
beaten trail that wound along the border of the river. The four free
horses stopped beside her, and cocked their ears forward at something on
the trail. One snorted, and there came an answering snort from trees
behind which Kin could not see. He touched the white horse with his
heels, and the horse gave a little hop that took him to the center of
the trail. Kin stared in the direction Reed Bowie was looking, and his
heart seemed to stop beating.

A uniformed British sergeant, mounted on a skittish sorrel mare, was
riding toward them. Beside him, with fixed muskets trained on Kin and
Reed Bowie, stalked five militiamen. Kin glanced around apprehensively,
and his nervousness communicated itself to the white horse. It danced
sideways, and tossed its head to chew on the bit in its mouth. Reed
Bowie reached forth to lay a hand on its neck and the horse was quiet
again. The British sergeant reined up ten feet away and sat sideways in
his saddle, looking at them. His tunic was open, and his hard eyes, Kin
thought, were looking right through him. The five militiamen slouched
carelessly, but never for an instant relaxed the hold on their rifles.

"Who are you?" The sergeant's voice was crisp.

"It depends," Reed Bowie answered. "Early this morning my grandson and I
were good Whigs. Since that time we've been only a couple of wayfarers
with four extra horses. Now I reckon the time has come to be good
Tories."

"Explain yourself, old man!" the sergeant ordered sternly.

"Well," Reed Bowie shrugged, "you can't take lodging at a good Whig's
house unless you're a good Whig too. Now, just suppose he had four
horses in his pasture. If he thought you were a Tory you'd never have a
chance to tap him on the head with a rifle barrel and get them, would
you? When you're driving those horses you might meet up with either
Whigs or Tories, so you're a wayfarer until you know who you're meeting.
But when you meet up with a British patrol, someone who can put the
horses into the King's service, it's high time to become a good Tory."

The five militiamen grinned, put their rifle stocks on the ground, and
leaned on their barrels. When the sergeant spoke again his voice was
less stern.

"Did you steal those horses?"

"Steal is a harsh word," Reed Bowie said piously. "The robbery of the
wicked shall destroy them. All I care to say is that the horses were at
a good Whig's house early this morning. Now I'm willing to do my duty by
the King and sell them to you for, let us say, sixty shillings each?"

"Sixty shillings for those spavined brutes?" The sergeant gazed
scornfully toward the horses. "They might carry a soldier two or three
miles, but I doubt it. The four may be worth sixty shillings."

"They've run many a mile since morning," Reed Bowie said. "And they're
tired. But any of them are still more than a match for that mare you're
riding. Still, I don't want to haggle with a King's man. Suppose we say
fifty each?"

"Thirty."

"I'll meet you halfway again. Make it forty."

"All right," the sergeant laughed. "I'll give you sixty for that black
mare and your grandson's white horse."

"No. We need swift mounts in our business. Do you have the money with
you?"

"Not that much." The sergeant reached inside his tunic and brought out a
purse. He emptied its contents into his hand.

"I have a hundred and five shillings," he announced. "I'll owe you
fifty-five. But you have a soldier's word that it will be paid the next
time you pass by here."

"A soldier's word is good enough for me," Reed Bowie said. He rode
forward and took the money. "Thank you, Sergeant."

"Why don't you and the boy come into camp for a meal and a rest?" the
sergeant asked.

Reed Bowie shook his head. "It's time for us to be Whigs again. We heard
of horses across the river."

"Meet me here tomorrow," the sergeant said eagerly. "I'll give forty
shillings apiece for all the horses you can bring."

"Fair enough," Reed Bowie answered. "And bring the money you owe me,
too. Come on, grandson. We have to swim. Head slantwise upstream. Lean a
little forward, so as to sink your horse's head nearer to the water.
Slacken your reins and give him play. That's it."

Kin rode into the river, and felt the water surge up around his saddle
as the white horse started swimming. Reed Bowie, holding the rifle,
pistol, and both powder horns high, rode beside him. Neither spoke until
the horses reached shallow water and scrambled for a footing in the
pebbly bottom.

"Why is he so anxious to buy horses?" Kin asked.

"He'll sell them to the army for sixty or seventy shillings each. But
the hundred and five we have will help John Denning get a new start."

They splashed through the shallow water and urged their tired horses up
the bank on the opposite side. Reed Bowie led through forest so
trackless and dense that the sun never reached its floor. Again Kin
sought vainly for some sign of trail or landmark.

The man who came out from behind a cypress tree did so so suddenly and
unexpectedly that he seemed to have been standing before them all the
time. He was a small man, dressed in mountaineer's clothing. The rifle
he carried was almost as long as he was, but he handled it as though it
were a part of him.

"Halt," he said in a nasal twang, "an' give the password."

"Don't go botherin' me for passwords, Saullie," Reed Bowie said.
"Where's the Colonel?"

"Reed Bowie!" the sentry exclaimed. "Come on!"

He led off at a trot through the dark woods, until they came to a fallen
tree. Kin stared at the man sitting on it. Of ordinary stature, he
somehow seemed to be a very giant of a man. His hair was combed back
from his powerful forehead, and his face had the strength of a granite
rock. Reed Bowie slid from his horse, and his voice was weighted with
respect when he said to Kin,

"Get down and salute, Kinross. This is Colonel Shelby."

Kin slid from his saddle and saluted stiffly.

"Colonel Shelby, this is Kinross McKenzie," Reed Bowie said. "He comes
direct from Tanse Willard with news that Gates met Cornwallis at Camden.
Gates was wiped out."

"So," Isaac Shelby said expressionlessly. Kin watched him closely,
awaiting the shock of the news. But as he watched in vain, he suddenly
knew why Reed Bowie regarded this man with such great deference. Isaac
Shelby was a real leader. But, more than that, he was a great _man_. If
no one stood at his back, he would still fight alone for anything in
which he believed.

"So," he said again, "that's the way the cat jumped, eh? We'll have to
retreat."

"That's all you can do, Colonel."

"Yup. That's all. But we had sort of figgered on pokin' a few hornets
into the British garrison at Musgrove's Mills. That would be one last
slap at 'em, anyway."

"I reckon you'll have to give it up. The woods are full of British and
Tories."

Isaac Shelby jumped to his feet so suddenly that Kin stepped backward
involuntarily.

"We ain't givin' it up!" he snapped. "You an' the boy git as much sleep
as you kin if you're ridin' with us, Reed. We start for Musgrove's Mills
an hour before sundown!"




4. _THE FOOLS_

[Illustration]


Kin was safely in bed, waiting dawn and the work it would bring, when a
huge white horse that grunted like a pig came up to stand over him. The
horse's cavernous mouth opened, and his teeth closed on Kin's shoulder.
Kin leaped up with a cry. He opened bewildered eyes to stare at the
green forest all about and at Reed Bowie's kindly face. The old man took
his huge hand from Kin's shoulder.

"Get up, Son," he said. "All fighting men will want to go to Musgrove's
Mills, and it's almost time to ride. The Colonel thinks you and I sort
of ought to stick together, too. How about it?"

"I haven't got a gun."

"I thought of that, too," Reed Bowie said. He took the pistol from his
belt and gave it to Kin, along with a horn of powder and a pouch of
bullets. "They're yours to keep. I know they're not as good as the rifle
Allaire took. But they'll do in a pinch."

Kin pocketed the pistol, and hung the horn and the bullet pouch about
his waist. A sudden warmth surged through him. Now that he had a gun
once more, he was once more a man. He tried to make his voice steady
when he asked,

"How many men are at Musgrove's Mills?"

"The Colonel figgers about two hundred."

"And how many men have we got?"

"Two hundred."

"But--but suppose there's more men than that at the Mills?"

Reed Bowie laughed. "Suppose there is? When I said the Colonel's got two
hundred men, I didn't mean two hundred like we met back at the cabin.
Colonel Clarke's here, and I reckon he'll command with Shelby. Captain
Jim McCall and Captain Sam Hammond are along, and they'll be going for
something besides the ride. Colonel Jim Williams is here with Tom
Brandon, Jim Steen, and Major McJunkin. You should know McJunkin; he's
almost an army in himself. Then there's Major Joe McDowell, Captain Dave
Vance, Captain Valentine Sevier, and Captain Shadrach Inman. I could
reel off the rest of the names, and you'd have two hundred riflemen that
can shoot the whiskers off'n a chipmunk."

Kin asked hesitantly, "Where's Ferguson?"

"Faugh!" Reed Bowie chuckled. "He's camped between us and Musgrove's.
The Bulldog's on watch, and the Colonel's picking the bone right out
from between his fore legs. But you'd better come. They'll be riding
soon."

Even to Kin, willing to rely on the judgment of older men, this seemed a
mad scheme. Gates, the man upon whom everyone had relied, had been
crushingly defeated. Rebels of the southern provinces should either be
admitting that the British had fairly won or else going back over the
mountains to those dim valleys where no British could follow. Yet a
handful of them were going to try to outflank the wily Ferguson and
attack a British stronghold. Kin thought dully of his level-headed
father and the lonely cabin he had left so abruptly.

They came suddenly in a natural forest meadow.

Throughout the clearing, and just within the trees at its borders,
little groups of men stood or lounged about. Except for a very few who
were dressed in homespun working clothes, all wore hunting shirts.
Either the shirts, or the fringes with which the sleeves were adorned,
varied in color. Most of the men had bucktails or a sprig of green pine
or holly in their round hats. A few swaggered about with swords and
sabers, but the majority carried only long rifles and the accompanying
hunting knife.

"They're not much to look at," Reed Bowie admitted. "But they'll do. The
color of their shirts or fringes tells what company they belong to."

Come upon so suddenly and unexpectedly, it seemed like a vast number of
men in the clearing. And how could so many gather in one place without
making a sound or in any way revealing their presence? Kin glanced
across the clearing. Sitting on or gathered about a fallen log a group
of men, evidently officers, were talking earnestly. Some were clad in
the blue and buff uniforms of the Continental army, but most were
dressed only in hunting shirts with their distinguishing colors.

A tall, wiry soldier wearing a coon-skin cap with the tail dangling down
his neck bawled, "Hustle up, Val! I wanna get my hands on the King's
money chest!"

One of the men on the fallen log turned around and drawled, "Maybe you'd
like to go off an' get it alone, Pete. Shut up until we're ready or I'll
put you on hoss detail."

The wiry soldier chuckled, and fell to counting his bullets.

"That's Valentine Sevier," Reed Bowie explained. "He used to be a spy
and has got more nerve than a cimarron bear. I reckon they're about
ready."

The officers about the fallen log dispersed among the men until only one
was left. It was Isaac Shelby, and he mounted the log. His voice was not
loud, but still loud enough to reach every man in the clearing.

"All right, here it is without any trimmin's. Gates has been licked, an'
Ferguson's gonna be on our necks afore long."

The men stood silent, open-mouthed, waiting what was to come next.

"Anybody here who thinks he ain't in one hell of a fix had better think
again," Shelby continued. "We can't lick the Tories an' British with
what we got--I sent a runner to McDowell tellin' him to clear out. Every
man of you's gonna have to ride back to yore cabin, an' tell those you
left there that Bulldog Ferguson run you out."

Isaac Shelby looked at the ground, and when he glanced up again he
flicked his hand in a gesture that brought grins to the faces of those
who had campaigned with him before.

"But I sort of got to thinkin'," Shelby said carelessly. "It's a long
ways from here to the Holston an' Nolachucky. I thought, 'Ike, you an'
all these other men rode all that way to fight the British.' Now, except
for that little skirmish when we took Thicketty Fort, an' that piddlin'
little fight we had with Dunlap in Fair Forest, we ain't hardly bothered
'em a'tall! But I thought too that it ain't hardly right to ask you to
go on an' fight the garrison at Musgrove's when I know that we can't get
help an' Ferguson's gonna be on us. So the best thing any of you can do
is scat while the scattin's good. Start now an' ride back over the
mountains."

He paused a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was fiercely
vehement.

"But _I'm_ goin' to Musgrove's! An' I thought that if six or eight of
you might be big enough fools to come along--why, that's six or eight
more bullets we could toss into the garrison there. Does anybody want to
go?"

There was an incoherent shout. Two hundred men raised their right arms,
or tossed caps into the air. Kin felt a strange magnetism grip him with
irresistible force, and raised his hand with the rest. Follow this man!
Follow this leader who knew the path and was bigger than any obstacle in
it! A strange, tingling pleasure coursed up and down Kin's spine when
Isaac Shelby smiled and looked down at his men. He seemed to be looking
not at a crowd, but individually at each person in it.

"Danged if you ain't all fools," he said clearly. "But come on. All we
got to do is ride forty miles by the crack o' dawn, have a hell of a
fight when we git thar, an' ride far enough an' fast enough to keep
ahead of whoever comes after us. Any man as gets left behind'll have to
look after hisself as best he can. Don't get caught by the Tories unless
you fancy yourself danglin' from a tree with a rope around your neck.
Cornwallis an' his men favor them neckties--for Whigs."

A spontaneous laugh rose from the assembled men, and they turned to rush
back into the forest. Kin found himself running with them, racing beside
Reed Bowie with the pistol clutched grimly in his hand. A strange
eagerness possessed him; he wanted to be at grips with whatever enemy
they were going to meet. Isaac Shelby had told them to expect a
gruelling ride, a hard fight, and perhaps no escape. Yet the manner in
which he had told it made everything seem a gay lark. Then a horse
neighed, and there came to Kin the realization that they were not
running toward Musgrove's but only toward the horses that were to carry
them there.

Saddled, bridled, and ready, the horses were tied to the limbs of trees.
A few danced skittishly at the ends of their tethers, but the majority
only gazed mildly at the soldiers rushing upon them. Kin knew without
being told that these had been through a dozen campaigns, that they were
more accustomed to being rushed upon and away at the touch of a spur
than they were to being mounted gently. Of nearly every size and color,
they were as genuinely war horses as were any mounts that ever carried
knights or Crusaders. And Kin found out also that the apparently
helter-skelter rush had had some method. The white horse stood near, and
beside it was the little black mare. A huge bay stallion was tied to the
same tree. Isaac Shelby untied it, and stood with the reins over his
arm. Officers moved about, and thirty men swung into their saddles.

"That's Williams' party," Reed Bowie volunteered.

"Yeh," Shelby agreed. "He an' Brandon know this kentry good's anybody
here. They're leadin' off." He stared reflectively after the
disappearing horsemen. "Well, looks like it's our turn to go."

Kin swung into the saddle, and crowded the white horse close to the
black mare's heels. Reed Bowie's words floated back to him.

"Just give your horse his head, and he won't fall behind. All you have
to do is stay in the saddle. Williams and Brandon will guide us there."

For an hour they rode through the forest. Once the brush crashed as a
herd of deer, scenting or hearing the column of horsemen, wheeled and
fled from it. A mocking bird, with almost perfect precision, began to
mimic the steady clip-clop, clip-clop, of the marching horses' hoofs.

Darkness fell, and it seemed to Kin that at the exact second complete
night overtook him, his horse stepped from trackless forest onto a road.
Williams and Brandon were doing very well up there in front. While it
was still broad daylight, and prying eyes might identify them, they had
stayed in the woods. But when night came, they had sought the much
easier travelling to be found on the road. The white horse pricked up
his ears, his swaying body moving faster as he went into a canter. Kin
swung in his saddle, and dimly made out the horseman just behind. The
column was galloping.

But it seemed that they continued it for an interminably long while. Kin
felt water splash as they galloped through a small river, and
automatically lifted his powder horn high in the air. Then they had
crossed the river and were on dry ground again. Kin stifled a yawn, and
let the reins go slack on the white horse's neck while he reached forth
to grasp the saddle horn with both hands. It was a shameful way to ride,
he knew. But nobody could see it. He sank forward in the saddle, and his
hands wrapped a little tighter about the saddle horn as he tried to
fight back an overpowering impulse to sleep. Never in his life had he
been more weary. Kin thought dully of his father, and wondered miserably
what he was doing and thinking.

In sudden terror he jerked himself erect. Someone was trying to drag him
from his saddle. Kin's hand lunged down in a savage attack on the arm
that encircled his waist, and he twisted sharply in the saddle.

"It's only Reed, Kinross."

"I've been asleep!" Kin said it as though it was an accusation, a crime
to sleep when there were some who could know no rest. Shame crept
through him.

"So have half the others," was the reply. "How do you feel now?"

"Fine. How far do we have to go yet?"

"About an hour's ride."

Kin said, "I'll make it."

The white horse's hoof beats were no longer a rhythmic cadence but a
stumbling, tired beat. But, whatever his shortcomings might have been,
Elmo Bladen had known how to pick a good horse. When the line broke into
a canter again the white horse galloped with them, flinging his
powerful body forward and keeping his nose at the little black mare's
heels. Kin left the reins slack on the horse's neck, and the night wind
was pleasantly cool against his face. It awakened him fully, and the
clip-clop song of the mocking bird again began to play through his mind.
Every man here was riding to battle and some were certainly going to
die. Yet that fact seemed as unreal as the ride itself. But the smell of
the dew-wet earth was very real, as was the hushed expectancy that
always preceded the birth of a day. Kin glanced back at the column, and
saw mounted men dimly outlined. Looking ahead, he could see Reed Bowie
on his little black mare and Isaac Shelby on his huge stallion. Day was
almost here. Five minutes later Kin followed the column into a field
where the leaders of the party had already dismounted. Kin slid from the
saddle and leaned against his horse while a tall, unruffled man in
buckskins came out of the half darkness. It was Valentine Sevier.

"I'm all set, Colonel," he said coolly.

He turned and stalked away. Five men, each carrying a Kentucky rifle,
fell in behind him and disappeared in the woods. Kin watched them
curiously, and glanced inquiringly at Reed Bowie.

"They're scouts," said the old man. "Going to find out what's what and
why."

Kin looked again at the forest into which the scouts had disappeared.
He, Jack Boone, and Sam Denning had played at this, in the forest about
McKenzie's Gap. But this was the real thing. Kin had to force himself to
believe it because all about soldiers were stripping saddles and bridles
from their mounts and rubbing the horses down. Finished, they put the
bridles back on and looped the reins over their arms while they either
sat or lay down and let the tired horses graze on the scanty grass in
the clearing. Except for the fact that no man got far from his saddle or
let go of his rifle, they were doing their necessary chores as though
this was nothing out of the ordinary. In guilty haste Kin pulled the
saddle from the white horse, and began to knead the sweat and saddle
stains from his back.

He sat on the ground with the looped bridle reins over his wrist and
tried to be as calm as the rest of the men appeared. A flicker's
strident morning call shattered the stillness, and a woodpecker began
his rattling tap-tap against a tree trunk. Two crows cawed indolently as
they winged toward some objective of their own. It was exactly like
every other morning, the same sounds, the same cool air, the same rising
sun with its promise of fierce heat to come.

From the direction the scouts had taken, a rifle shot cracked like a
whip lash. It was followed by another shot, sharp and clear. Then came
the rattle of a half-dozen shots, and two more spaced five seconds
apart.

As though the shots had been a signal they were expecting, every man
rose and slapped the saddle back on his horse. There was no excitement,
no apparent confusion. But every man had his rifle ready, and was
prepared to fight or to ride and run. Kin saddled the white horse, and
swore under his breath because his fingers trembled when he buckled the
cinch strap. The sight of Reed Bowie standing with one hand on the black
mare's withers calmed him. Whatever Reed did, he would do. Clarke,
Brandon, Williams, and the rest of the officers led their horses over
near Shelby's mount. Then suddenly two hundred rifles went up to cover
movement at the edge of the woods. The rifles were lowered when
Valentine Sevier and six men broke from the shelter of the trees.

They came across the field at a dead run. A spreading circle of blood
showed through the shoulder of one man's buckskin shirt, and another
reached up an impatient hand to brush the blood away from a bullet gash
in his forehead. Valentine Sevier came to a halt before the assembled
officers, and Kin heard him say,

"We forded the river, Colonel, an' got right up to the camp. I could
only make a guess, but I know thar's closer to five hundred than two
hundred men in it. Comin' back, we met a British patrol an' had a
little scrimmage with 'em. We got one, wounded two. But t'other two got
back to camp. They know we're here, Colonel, but they don't know how
many of us there are. By the way, we found Adam Reep hangin' 'round next
to the camp. He's got somethin' to say about the Tories that we didn't
figger on."

Adam Reep, a diminutive man with a ridiculously long rifle, came
forward.

"I been a-lyin' out," he said. "I got tired of hidin' in the brush an'
come down here to see if I could flush a British sentry an' get a shot
at him. Last evenin' Colonel Inness, I knowed him on account I been to
Ninety-Six an' saw him, come in with two hundred Provincials an' about a
hundred Tories. Dave Fannin' an' Dan Clary's thar, too. They sent a
hundred men off this mornin' on some of the hell's business them Tories
is allus runnin'. But I reckon there still is five hundred men in camp."

Williams said apprehensively, "We'd better get out."

"How ya gonna get out?" Shelby snapped. "Every horse here has got forty
miles behind it now. If we try to run them wolves will be snappin' at
our heels an' pullin' us down from behind. We gotta fight!"

"Shore, an' that makes sense to me," Colonel Clarke drawled.

The rest of the officers nodded their assent. Shelby turned to Adam
Reep.

"Ain't there a ridge over thataway?"

"Yup. A good timbered ridge. It's a mite east of Cedar Shoal Crick an'
'bout half a mile from the ford. It's a right smart place to fight from,
Cunnel."

"Take us there."

Isaac Shelby swung into his saddle, and Adam Reep started at a fast trot
through the woods. Kin mounted, and the white horse kept just behind
Shelby's stallion as both followed Adam Reep. Reed Bowie edged his mare
up beside Kin, but the two hundred soldiers made so little noise in
mounting and following that Kin had to look behind to make sure they
were coming. Adam Reep halted, and raised his hand.

"This is a good place to leave the hosses, Cunnel."

There was a hurried consultation between Shelby and Clarke. The officers
came up, and circulated among the troops. Two parties of twenty men each
and one of twenty-five remained mounted. The rest dismounted, tying
their horses to trees and bushes or merely leaving them with reins
trailing on the ground. They started walking forward, up a ridge that
was bisected by an old road. Isaac Shelby walked to the rim of the
ridge, and stood for a moment looking down. Kin could see a river
glinting in the early morning sun and, beyond that, the tents of the
British camp. Shelby turned around and lifted a bull-like voice.

"We'll make a breastwork across the road an' along the ridge. Make it
one to shoot from. Everybody pitch in."

Kin leaped toward a log, one that ordinarily he would not have tried to
lift. But it seemed to come off the ground almost of its own volition,
and Kin looked up to see Reed Bowie carrying the other end of it. They
took it to the road, threw it down, and went back for another. Kin was
only dimly aware of other men all about, carrying logs, rocks, sods,
anything to help build up the breastwork. But he was clearly aware of
Isaac Shelby, seemingly everywhere at once, doing twice the work of
anyone else, and infusing into the tired troops his own boundless
vitality. Then, after an interval that Kin thought could not have been
more than two minutes but actually was thirty, Isaac Shelby once more
had the attention of his men.

"Good enough," he said calmly. "We could lick Cornwallis hisself from
behind this. You ready, Shad?"

"All ready, Colonel."

In charge of the twenty-five mounted men, Captain Shadrach Inman and his
party rode down the ridge. Kin followed Reed Bowie and Shelby to the
right flank of the hastily improvised fort, and stood there with his
eyes fixed on the little party of mounted men who were riding down to
the ford. They drew up at the river, levelled their rifles, and shot at
a party of Tories assembling on the other side. Kin saw three Tories
fall, and the rest take cover.

A great roar went up from the British camp. Drums began to rattle, and
bugles blasted their shrill defiance. Men on foot and on horseback
poured toward the river and began to splash recklessly across it.
Captain Inman's little band reloaded and shot again. Then, wheeling
their horses, they began a disorderly retreat.

Kin opened and closed his jaws, and glanced back toward the tethered
horses. He wanted desperately to go back there, to get so far from this
place that even the echo of the noises that filled his ears would no
longer be remembered. But his body was a wooden thing incapable of
motion.

The man to his left, a Watauga rifleman named William Smith, exclaimed,

"By gum! Thar's the leader! Lay off him, all of you. He's my meat!"

"All right, Bill," Shelby drawled. "But don't shoot 'til you can count
the ha'r in his eyebrows."

"Huh! Sinst when you been tellin' me how to shoot?"

"Just because you won the beef critter at the shoot last year ...
say, look at Inman! If he ain't the gumptionest!"

Inman's command had turned, charged back into the very teeth of the
British, and fired another volley. They wheeled, and each man bent low
over his horse's neck as they raced up the hill toward the breastwork.
Three riderless horses, with dangling bridle reins and flapping
stirrups, ran with them. The men leaped the barricade and raced their
horses down the hill to where the rest were tethered. At this apparent
retreat, the pursuing British and Tories redoubled their speed. A
spontaneous shout burst from foot soldiers and horsemen alike.

Kin fixed his eyes on an officer, a red-coated lieutenant with a waving
sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. The lieutenant was young,
with curly brown hair that was gathered in a knot at the base of his
neck. A ragged blue scar ran down his right cheek. His eyes flashed
white, and Kin realized with a start that the officer was almost close
enough for him to "count the hair in his eyebrows."

At that moment a murderous volley came from the men behind the
barricade. Kin saw a little spot of blood on the lieutenant's forehead,
and his eyes blinked as though he had been suddenly and greatly
surprised. He fell limply forward. But, even as he fell, his arm jerked
forward and his sword pointed up hill, toward the enemy, the direction
in which a good soldier should go. Kin glanced down the battle line, and
saw fallen British and Tories everywhere, either lying still or trying
to crawl away.

They had fallen into the trap set by Inman's twenty-five men, without
even suspecting that a hundred and seventy-five more lay in ambush. For
a short space they drew back in bewildered confusion. But their officers
were still with them, riding or walking along their lines and whipping
them back into order.

Still outnumbering the rebels three to one, the British and Tories
reformed their lines and charged up the ridge straight toward the
barricade.




5. _THE FLIGHT_

[Illustration]


Uniformed Provincials, on foot and on horse, swarmed up the ridge toward
the right flank of the breastwork. Bayonets gleamed on the ends of their
muskets, and the officers' waving swords gave back brilliant reflections
of the rising morning sun. But, when they shot, most of their bullets
whistled harmlessly over the barricade.

"They're over-shootin'," William Smith sneered. "Guess they never shot
uphill afore. Now, whar did that leader git to?"

Kin turned around. Nearly every rifle had helped fire the first Whig
volley. Since then their shooting had been sporadic, and Kin had been
able to tell from which position nearly every shot had come. But it
occurred to him suddenly that William Smith had not been firing at all.
And anyone who was not helping beat back the British was helping lose
the battle for his own comrades.

"Why don't you shoot?" Kin demanded.

"I shoot when I see somethin' I want to shoot at--an' then I hit it!"

"Leave him alone," Reed Bowie said. "He wants ... Damn the luck!"

The old man had been kneeling behind the breastwork with his gun resting
across the top of it. He swung his rifle toward a sergeant who was
leading a squad of soldiers up the ridge, but just at that moment two
officers galloped in front of them and little dust bombs exploded
beneath their horses' hoofs to screen both the officers and the men.
Reed Bowie remained in position, his rifle trained on the dust screen.
When the sergeant and his men came rushing out of it, thirty feet nearer
the breastwork, Bowie's finger tightened on the trigger. The sergeant
took three loose-legged steps forward and fell on his face. Reed Bowie
dropped behind the breastwork and methodically began reloading his
rifle. More rifles spoke, and two of the men who had been with the
sergeant dropped in their tracks. The rest fell back uncertainly.

Kin rested his pistol across the breastwork, and flinched only slightly
when a bullet whistled three feet over his head. The first baptism of
fire, he had found, was very like the first attempt to swim. You might
be afraid of the water, but once you were in it and found that you could
handle yourself there, much of that fear departed. This was the same. A
little care and caution greatly increased your chances of living through
a battle. So far the Whigs' only casualties were the three men that
Captain Inman had lost.

But, though he had been shooting wildly, Kin now held his fire. Talking
with William Smith, and watching Reed Bowie shoot, had taught him one of
the most significant facts of frontier fighting. Schooled as European
soldiers, the British were maintaining a constant fire. It made a
terrifying noise, but most of their bullets whistled harmlessly over the
breastwork. Trained as frontier Indian fighters accustomed to setting
out on long, lonely journeys and carrying on their persons enough powder
and shot to last them, the Whigs had been taught that each shot must
count.

Kin recalled Ian's words: "I hae it in mind that Lord Cornwallis an' his
officers know little enou' o' the temper o' the men with which they
meddle." Ian had known what he was talking about. As against three
Americans lost, the ridge was littered with British and Tory dead and
wounded.

But still they came on, swarming up the ridge, outnumbering the
barricade's defenders two to one. Kin heard firing to the left, and
risked a glance in that direction. He could see Tories, still far down
the ridge, creeping from tree to tree and shooting whenever an
opportunity offered. Clarke was holding them. But the right flank of the
breastwork, Shelby's position, was threatened by regulars who had been
trained in the hard school of direct assault.

An officer with a duelling pistol in either hand rode up to the
barricade, leaned over, and shot. A buckskinned mountaineer dropped his
rifle and pressed both hands to his side. Kin watched him walk backward
to a tree, and sit down by it with his head bent and both hands still
tightly pressed against his side. Finally he relaxed and his hands
fluttered to the ground.

A dozen rifles spoke, but the daring British officer seemed to bear a
charmed life. He wheeled his horse and raced back down the ridge. As
soon as he had reloaded his pistols he returned for another charge. And
the men behind him, inspired by and partaking of his own courage, came
with him in an intrepid, irresistible attack that brought them to and
over the breastwork in a surging flood of fighting men and weapons.

But the mountaineers were no longer there. Kin had watched the British
charge, men with waving sabers or fixed bayonets. Then he had been aware
that Reed Bowie had seized him by the hand and run with him. Now he
peered out from behind a tree to see the British take the right flank of
the breastwork. Reed Bowie knelt behind another tree. A third concealed
Shelby, and a fourth sheltered William Smith. Kin watched the rifleman's
worried face, and heard him mutter.

"Dog-gone, I shore thought I saw him ag'in. But he wan't thar."

The British began to deploy from the captured breastwork into the woods.
They were coming more slowly now--there were veterans among them who had
gone into the woods after mountaineers before. A little wind began to
lift the smoke and dust of battle from the ridge. Then two officers came
in sight. The first was the one who had ridden up to the breastwork and
inspired the first charge, but the other was as magnificently mounted
and as reckless. Their spurred horses bounded to the fore of the
advancing British. Behind them, the walking infantrymen broke into a
trot, and the mounted soldiers spurred forward. Kin heard William
Smith's happy shout.

"Dog-gone, thar he be!"

His rifle slid around the tree, held steady for a second, and belched
its smoke and flame. The officer reeled in his saddle, his sword
clattered to the ground, and the reins went limp. The horse reared and
screamed, lashing out with his forefeet. He wheeled and raced back into
the British lines. Two troopers caught his bridle, while others dragged
the wounded officer from the saddle and carried him away.

But another rifle had cracked, and the other officer leaned forward to
put both arms about his galloping horse's neck. The horse tore through
the Whig lines, leaped a fallen tree, and went racing through the forest
with his rider still grimly clinging to the saddle. With the disabling
of their two leaders, the British force suddenly became a body without a
head. It could still fling itself about, and move its muscles, but it
had nothing to direct it. And the Whigs who faced this paralyzed monster
seized their opportunity to demolish it.

The Indian yell that swelled from the mountaineers' throats rang through
the forest, filling its emptiness with terrible threats of things to
come. They were no longer two hundred men, but a great yelling devil
whose high-pitched voice completely demoralized the British. They
turned to run, and Kin found himself running after them. He saw Captain
Shadrach Inman race by. A long knife gleamed in his right hand, his
rifle was clutched in his left.

From the center and left flanks of the breastwork, Clarke's and
Williams' men joined in the Indian yell and leaped the barricade to join
the charge. A dozen of the fleetest mountaineers broke like hounds from
a pack and began snapping at the very heels of the fleeing British and
Tories. Kin raced behind them, carried along by the victorious wave, for
the moment forgetting everything save that the enemies who would have
killed him had broken themselves on the Whig defenses and were in full
retreat. Intoxicated with victory, he yelled at every step.

Then suddenly a heavy hand on his shoulder jerked him backward. Kin
whirled, doubling his fists to strike at whoever dared rob him of his
just share of the Whig triumph. But he was jerked back more rudely, and
a cuff alongside the head sent him sprawling to the ground. For a
moment, half-dazed, he lay still. Then he rose to a sitting position and
raised a hand to his smarting cheek.

The blow and the fall seemed to have erased from his mind the wild
battle lust that had possessed it, and when he looked down the ridge he
saw a very clear picture of the battle. Reed Bowie, standing just a
little way ahead of him, whipped his rifle to his shoulder and shot. Kin
followed the direction in which the rifle pointed, and stifled a
horrified gasp.

Three hundred feet down the ridge Captain Inman was surrounded by
British regulars. He had grasped his gun by the end of the barrel, and
was swinging it like a flail about his head. A soldier staggered
soddenly out of the group, and walked drunkenly toward the river. Reed
Bowie began to reload his rifle. But, as though at a given signal, the
British soldiers drew away from Captain Inman's side. Muskets rattled.
Captain Inman's knees buckled, as he sank to the ground near the base of
a Spanish oak.

"See why I stopped you?" said Reed Bowie grimly. "You'd a' been there,
too."

The British force was a beaten but not yet a broken thing, an animal to
be harried to a stand and pulled down. The regulars could still strike
and kill, and only the Tories' flight had become a rout. The first of
the retreating British reached the ford, and began splashing across it
toward their stronghold on the other side. More troops piled into the
river. A detachment of five regulars, who had evidently appointed
themselves a rear guard, turned for a stand on the river bank.
Mountaineers swarmed over them, and lined up along the river bank to
shoot at the fleeing men in the water. Kin watched five prisoners, in
charge of a grim-faced mountaineer, hurry back toward the top of the
ridge.

A dragoon standing knee-deep in water turned and levelled his musket.
Kin flinched involuntarily as the heavy slug whistled toward him. He
heard its sodden "splat," as it struck William Smith low down in the
abdomen. The rifleman who had come all the way from the Watauga to shoot
the British leader and be shot by the dragoon, opened his hunting shirt
and thrust his hand inside. He brought it out again, and looked at the
blood on his fingers. Then he sat tiredly down on the river bank.

"Look what they done to me!" he said wonderingly.

The dragoon climbed out on the opposite bank of the river and turned
around. He put his left thumb to his nose and wriggled his fingers. Kin
felt hot anger, and saw a red flush begin at Reed Bowie's collar and
creep up to his temples. The wounded William Smith sat helplessly,
miserable in his own pain and despair. It was oddly as though manhood
was a tangible thing that could be shut up within a body, and as though
the dragoon's bullet hole had provided an exit to let it spill out of
William Smith. He whimpered like a little child.

"Look! Look what he's doin' now!"

Reed Bowie raised his rifle and shot. The dragoon tumbled into the
river, with his head and shoulders submerged and his feet up on the
bank.

The Whig soldiers lined up on the river bank, staring at one another. So
far they had come, and now they must go no farther. For a shadow hovered
over the garrison at Musgrove's. And, though only a shadow, it was still
strong enough to come between the beaten British and Tories on one side
of the river and the victorious Whigs on the other. It was the shadow of
the mighty Ferguson. Maybe he was already on the way. Certainly the
British had sent runners to tell him of the attack. Kin looked about for
Shelby, and saw him standing alone on the river bank, waiting. Colonel
Brandon came down the ridge.

"What's the count?" Shelby asked.

"There's sixty-one daid on the field," Tom Brandon drawled. "We kil't
nine mo' we know of when they was crossin' the rivah. There's
seven'y-three wounded on this side, an' some mo' that got across."

"What's our loss?"

"Fo' daid, nine wounded."

"Can the wounded ride?"

"Seven of 'em cain't."

"We'll leave them."

"Leave us!"

The agonized cry was wrung from William Smith. He still sat on the
ground like a dog that has been torn in fighting a bear, and that now
has to be shot because it is badly hurt. His imploring eyes were fixed
on Shelby, and his strangely white hands clenched and unclenched. Shelby
turned away from him, and beckoned a British lieutenant who was standing
between two huge mountaineers.

"Cross the river," Shelby said. "Tell whoever's in command over there
that I'm leavin' seven wounded men on the field, an' I expect they'll be
treated accordin' to the laws of war."

"You needn't worry, Colonel Shelby," the lieutenant said haughtily. "The
British army always treats wounded enemies that way."

"Your damn Tory allies don't," Shelby said bitterly, and turned away.
Then he lifted his voice and shouted, "Back to the hosses, everybody
that kin ride!"

After the battle that had raged up and down it, the ridge was strangely
hushed. Scarcely an hour had passed since Kin had helped build the
breastwork, and in that hour more than a hundred and fifty men had been
killed or wounded. A trooper with a brilliant splash of blood on his
pasty gray forehead grinned at him. Kin grinned back. Then he closed his
eyes, to fight back the sudden sickness that rose in the pit of his
stomach, and walked on.

But the defiant grin of a suffering man crystallized a transformation
that had been forming within him since the battle started. Lieutenant
Allaire had taken his gun. That had been an intolerable act, one that
under no circumstances was to be borne. It had inspired in Kin a violent
hatred of the British and all they stood for.

Now the bitter hate was gone. The British were not some repulsive breed
of reptile. They were men, and in the face of tremendous losses they had
fought bravely. But there was a difference in men. Turkey-Trot Logan,
for instance. If he was told to stay in one place and make rifles, as
Ian did, doubtless he would refuse to do it. If someone tried to force
him to stay in one place, he would fight to his last bullet. Yet Ian had
always seemed happy at his trade of rifle-making.

Kin was beginning to understand America as it now existed. Each man, in
this country he had helped to make, was free to choose what he would do,
to walk and live as he desired. The war was being fought principally to
preserve that right to be free, and the burning question to be settled
was whose way of life should prevail here in this new country.

Kin looked back down the ridge. Most of the dead and wounded men on it
lay there because they believed in a King's right to rule. William Smith
and the other Whigs lay there because they disputed that right. Shelby,
Reed Bowie, and all the others who were about to flee Ferguson's wrath
disputed it. Yet, in defending their belief that it was a man's
birthright to choose his own destiny, his leaders did not hate the men
who opposed them. If they hated at all, it was the principle that these
men represented. And the only way they could strike at that principle
was through the men.

Kin felt as though he had grown years older during the short hour in
which the battle had raged. He still yearned to have his rifle back. But
the lost gun was now only a symbol of much greater things for which he
was fighting. He felt that he was stronger, and that his new-found
understanding now rested on such a firm foundation that nothing could
ever tear it down.

The horses lifted their heads and looked up the ridge when their masters
strode toward them. A few of the mountaineers led British horses whose
riders had been shot, but there were scarcely a half dozen of these. The
prisoners were lined up. Valentine Sevier and Tom Brandon started at
opposite ends of the line and walked along it jerking flints from the
captured men's rifles. When their hands were filled they passed the
flints out to others, and they were distributed among the mountaineers
until every rifle was stripped of its flint.

Meantime Shelby had mounted a stump and was addressing the prisoners.

"Ye're prisoners of war," he said crisply. "As such ye'll be treated.
One of ye will ride with every three men here. Ye'll share the horses,
take your turn at ridin' an' at walkin' when an' if we hafta walk. Try
to escape an' ye'll be shot." He turned to the mountaineers. "Ye heard
what I said. Every group of three will be responsible fer one prisoner.
We're ridin' now."

"Whar be we ridin', Cunnel?" a bearded mountaineer asked gruffly.

"Back over the mountains."

"Them hosses are mighty tired, Cunnel," the mountaineer objected. "So
are the men. They'll never make it."

"They'll make it," Shelby said grimly.

"Yes suh, Cunnel."

Reed Bowie, walking companionably beside an eighteen-year-old boy in the
uniform of a British Provincial, came from the line of prisoners. Kin
looked the boy over curiously. His uniform was torn. There was a great
smudge of dirt on his right cheek and a powder burn on the back of his
hand. Smoldering defiance glittered in his eyes, but there was a very
genuine curiosity there, too.

Reed Bowie said, "This is George Crowlby, from up New Jersey way. I
thought you might like to share your horse with him for a while. How
about it?"

"I reckon he can ride with me," Kin said stiffly, and led the way to the
horses.

The battered young soldier muttered under his breath and followed Kin to
the white horse. They mounted, Kin in the saddle and the young soldier
sitting on the horse's rump with both arms around Kin's waist. He turned
for one swift, apprehensive look behind him, and was reassured by the
sight of Major McJunkin riding there. A man needn't hate his enemies.
But still it might be a good idea not to trust any at your back. If the
young soldier had a knife ...

But he only held on tightly with both arms and let his legs dangle down
the white horse's flanks. As they drew farther away from the
battlefield, and any chance of rescue, it became apparent that his
silence and sullenness were only masks to hide fear. But no one gave him
the slightest attention, nor offered him harm, and his fear began to
cool.

Kin gave all his attention to the trail. He was wearier than he ever
remembered being before. Even Reed Bowie's shoulders were stooped, and
the black mare plodded with drooping head. Shelby's immense stallion had
lost most of his dash and fire. And Kin knew that every horse and every
man that had been at Musgrove's was just as tired. Isaac Shelby would
need all his cunning and all his boundless energy if he would keep his
command away from Bulldog Ferguson's jaws this time.

After another hour the white horse ambled to an oak tree, stood with
lowered head against it, and refused to move. Kin dug his heels into the
horse's ribs, and lashed him about the neck with the ends of the reins.
The white horse slid gently forward and sprawled on the ground with his
head against the tree. Kin sprang from the saddle, and the young soldier
leaped after him. Horsemen filled the trail behind them, and their noise
brought Shelby and Reed Bowie back.

"What's the matter?" Shelby barked.

"My horse fell. I reckon he's dead."

"Bring him one of the British horses we caught," Shelby ordered.

Kin and the young soldier mounted the British horse, a rangy sorrel with
long legs. Shelby wheeled his stallion and led off. The sun beat down
with a fierce intensity on the heavy hunting garb of battle-harassed
men, burning out the sweat that oozed from their pores, making the weary
trail almost unbearable. They came to a river, and every man threw
himself from the saddle to wade beside his mount. They rolled in the
water, threw it over their heads and faces, and drank. And when they
climbed out on the opposite bank they were all able to go on.

Twice during the day they stopped to rest their horses, but only for
twenty minutes at a time. At the second rest Valentine Sevier, who had
stayed behind to scout, galloped up on a lathered, spent horse and
conferred a few seconds with Shelby. Kin caught a few hurried words,
"Ferguson ... half hour behind," and they were off again. Riding
through dense forests or along settlers' fields, snatching ears of green
corn or unripe peaches as they rode and pronouncing them the most
delicious food they had ever eaten, they continued until nightfall. And
they forced their weary horses into the night until, at last, they
reached the foothills of their own beloved mountains and knew that, at
least for the time being, they were safe from Ferguson and his avenging
band. Every man's face was swollen with fatigue, and sixty dead or spent
horses were left behind on the trail. But Shelby had brought his command
through without losing a man. They slid from their saddles or sank down
where they stood to sleep. In the past thirty-six hours, the little army
had ridden more than one hundred miles on horseback and fought a savage
battle. They had done what they set out to do.

Except for Reed Bowie, Shelby, Valentine Sevier, and a few others who
had volunteered for guard and sentry duty, only Kin remained awake.
Tired as he was, he sat on the bank of a purling little stream, and
watched the bright array of stars in the sky. He knew the stream for a
tributary of the Santaree. Only a few short miles away, if you knew the
route through the forests, was McKenzie's Gap. And in the cabin there
sat a lonely, heavy-hearted man who had chosen the British side, but who
loved his son greatly. Kin rose and walked over to where Reed Bowie and
Shelby were talking.

"I'm goin' home," he announced.

"To your father?" Reed Bowie asked.

"Yes."

"He's a Tory."

"He's my father."

"Well, putting it that way, I guess the Colonel won't object. How about
it, Colonel?"

"Go an' welcome, boy," Shelby said gravely. "Take your horse."

"You'll have better use for the horse. I don't want it."

"As ye say, boy. Good luck."

"Good luck, Colonel Shelby."

"Good-bye, Kinross." Reed Bowie shook his hand. "Remember us."

"I will."

Kin choked back a sob of loneliness and exhaustion as he swung westward
through the forest. He found the Cota Springs trail, and stumbled along
it, half asleep. By instinct he hesitated when he came to the edge of
his father's clearing. The roan saddle horse snorted, and ran a few
steps in the pasture. Bonnie shuffled out of a patch of grass, and blew
through her nostrils as she made way for him. Kin looked at the cabin.

The acrid smoke that rolled from its chimney stung his nostrils, and
streaks of firelight danced up and down the partly open door. Kin walked
silently up to it, and peered in. Ian sat before the fireplace, with his
chin buried in his hands. He was unmoving, but there was something about
him that had not been there when Kin left. Ian's shoulders were bowed,
his face was gray and seamed, and he looked like an old man. Kin spoke
softly from the doorway.

"I'm here, father."

Ian twitched nervously, then sat bolt upright. He turned around to face
the door.

"Kin! Is that you?"

"Yes." Kin stood quite still, torn between anxiety and relief.

"Ah-h! Where hae ye been?"

"Fightin' the British."

"So. Well, come on in."

Kin entered the cabin and walked to Ian's side. But the vast weariness
that had been upon him all day, and that had lifted only for a little
while at the Rebel camp and during the walk home, now returned with
overwhelming force. The dancing fire became a distorted image of smoke
and flame. Ian's profile faded, wavering back and forth. Kin tried to
keep his eyes open, and could not.

He knew vaguely that he had fallen forward in Ian's arms, and that Ian
was carrying him to his pallet. Kin stirred restlessly, then stopped.
Sleep was stealing over him. But, more than that, he stopped moving
because he knew that Ian would not want even his son to know that he was
crying, or to hear him say,

"Thank ye, God. Thank ye for sendin' my boy back to me."




6. _A CHANGE IN IAN_

[Illustration]


The sun was high when Kin awoke. He sat up and leaned forward in bed,
clasping his hands across the patchwork quilt and recalling in minutest
detail everything that had happened since he had met Tanse Willard in
the woods and been sent by him to carry the message to Reed Bowie. That,
the Tories, the long ride, Shelby and his army, and the battle. It
seemed almost impossible that his mind could leap the span of all those
events in a few short minutes, and that each recollection could be so
sharp and clear.

The battle itself ... Kin frowned because the memory of it seemed to
have something strangely lacking. While it raged he had had little time
for anything save his own personal actions and those of the men nearest
him. But his idea of a battle had been and still was lusty conflict
filled with adventurous deeds and excitement. At Musgrove's Mills,
though he had seen much of adventure and many deeds of bravery, he had
also seen suffering and tormented men to whom death would have been a
blessing. Somehow he had never thought of that as an inevitable
companion of battles.

There had been something else too, another feeling that his imagination
had never associated with wars. Each time he had seen one of the British
or Tories fall, there had come to him a sensation of great triumph that
had been wholly apart from any feeling of humanity. Every British and
Tory that could fight no more was one less to help oppress his homeland.
And the principal effect of the battle at Musgrove's Mills, as far as
Kin was concerned, was to strengthen his determination that all British
and all British sympathizers must be defeated.

Kin looked about the cabin, at Ian's empty bed and the smoldering coals
in the fireplace. Ian had gone outside, and the measured ringing of his
hammer told that he was forging another gun barrel. Kin dressed, glad
that his father was not there to see him right now and ashamed of the
fact that he was glad. Last night when he came in he had been so tired
that he had noticed only his father's weary face. But now that he was
rested he hesitated to face Ian because memory of that gaunt, drawn face
was frightening and because he did not know exactly what would be his
father's reaction to the fact that he had been fighting with the Rebels.

At first his raging appetite took control over everything else. Then Kin
dawdled over the roasted squirrels and corn bread that Ian had left for
him because he was worried about what his father would say or do. Only
when he was finished did it occur to him that Ian had never before
prepared a meal. That in itself was startling enough to deserve sober
consideration.

Kin threw the squirrel bones into the fire and watched the flames leap
around them. Then with resolute determination he went outside to face
his father.

Ian was standing under the black walnut tree with his back to Kin. His
coarse homespun shirt was soaked with perspiration, and his long black
hair hung in straggling locks down his back. His beard was a black
outline on either side of his face. As Kin looked at him, he felt a
great flood of sympathy.

His father had always worked very hard. But now it was as though a demon
with a lashing whip sat astride his shoulders. The gun barrel he was
making rested in an ingenious iron cradle, which only Ian could have
conceived and manufactured, that held it in the glowing coals. He worked
the bellows, pumping them so hard that the blue flame stretched toward
the top of the forge and black specks of dust flew from the bottom of it
to rise in the air and settle back again. He looked at nothing save the
gun barrel and the forge, concentrating on his work as though it had
some magnetic quality from which he could not avert his eyes. He grasped
the hot barrel with tongs and stepped toward the mandrel.

Kin walked forward. "I'll work the bellows," he said.

It seemed a perfectly natural thing to say and yet the words were
scarcely spoken before Kin felt that it had been the wrong thing. Ian
laid the hot barrel down on a wooden bench--something that he would have
boxed Kin's ears for doing--and seemed neither to see the smoke that
arose from it nor to smell the scorched wood. He said nothing and Kin
felt an embarrassed flush begin at his neck to creep up through his
temples. Ian should have been roaring at him that the day was wasting
and he'd better get to work before he felt some more tangible form of
his father's wrath. He should have been deploring the lack of diligence
exhibited by the younger generation that would lie abed after the sun
was two hours high. Now, Kin felt uneasily, it was oddly as though their
roles were reversed. He was the one who gave commands and Ian the one to
obey them.

"Did ye have a sound rest?" Ian asked finally.

"I never turned over once my eyes shut."

"Well, that's--that's well enou'. Ye looked sore in need o' sleep."

Ian glanced at the sky as though looking for something that was not
there, then let his glance roam off across the forest. Obviously his
mind was far from the topic he had selected for conversation. If Kin's
allegiance to the Rebels was bothering him, it was just as well to bring
that to a head and get it over with.

Kin said, "I want you to know that I take no shame in the part I played
with Isaac Shelby. His side is mine, and I'll stand or fall with it."

Kin spoke with a firmness that startled even himself, and breathlessly
awaited the explosion from Ian. But it did not come. Ian looked at the
ground, and when he raised his eyes to meet those of his son they were
expressionless.

"'Tis well that a man should know what he wants," he said. "An' so
there'll be naught o' secrecy between us, I'll tell ye that I still
favor the King an' crown. They hae made grievous, blood-ridden mistakes,
errors that canna be corrected. But so hae the Rebels."

"You--you ain't mad at me?" Kin gasped.

"I am not. Such decisions as ye hae made consarn only a man an' his
conscience. I would be the last to tell ye that your choice is an unwise
one. But I do ask ye to tell me just one thing. Did any British or Tory
soldier know ye as my son? Or did any see ye that will know ye again?"

"Only the prisoners, an' where they're goin' no talk will drift back."

"Then," Ian said with satisfaction, "ye're safe here for as long as ye
care to abide. I asked ye if ye had been singled out because Major
Ferguson has sent word by runner that one o' his officers will see me on
important affairs before the week has lapsed. I would not want ye shot
or sent to one of the stinkin' prisons where captured Rebels are sent. I
will expect ye not to interfere wi' or obstruct the officer, who will be
a guest at our home. Nor will I interfere should any o' those wi' whom
ye hae cast your lot hae affairs wi' ye here. On such terms, think ye
that we might still live as father an' son?"

Kin's lower lip trembled, but he stiffened it. He had come home
expecting to be bullied and brow-beaten and roared at, all the old
safe, secure signs that Ian still loved and cherished him, and that his
father was at least one sane thing in a confused world. Instead, he had
arrived to be received as a man, and to find Ian upset much more than
himself by the turn of events. Well, if he was expected to be a man, a
man he would be.

"I came home because I thought ye wanted me here," he said.

"Ye did!" The exclamation was one of sheer delight, and for a brief
flash the old Ian rose out of the shell in which he had enclosed
himself. But almost immediately he sank back into it. "Well--well now.
That's real nice."

"Are you feelin' all right?" Kin challenged bluntly.

"An' why would I not?" Ian countered. "Maybe 'tis you that are
forgettin' I'm an old man."

Kin pondered a moment on that puzzling assertion. He had never thought
of Ian as old. All he knew was that since the British invasion and near
subjugation of the southern colonies he hadn't been happy. That was
strange, considering that Ian's side was winning the war. Perhaps his
father was sick with some mysterious ailment that he did not care to
admit. Kin reproached himself mentally for having been away for even two
days.

"Anyway, I'm goin' to help you make guns now," he promised.

Ian brightened visibly. He might be unhappy, and his son lost to him,
but gun-making no one could ever take from him. It was to Ian what Kin
had sought when he came home, something sane and safe and stable in a
world where all values were either suddenly wiped out or reversed.

"'Tis small help I'll be needin'," Ian said proudly. "Do ye mind last
winter when Turkey-Trot Logan crossed the mountains wi' the names o'
twenty-one men who wanted McKenzie rifles? An' this is the last, Kin. I
sent my promise back by Turkey-Trot that every last rifle would be ready
by the time the bucks were ruttin'. An' they will be. On this bench
rests the bar'l for the twenty-first gun--Turkey-Trot's--an' a finer
bar'l I never fashioned. Ye can help me finish it, Kin."

Kin took his accustomed place at the bellows, and in a half dozen lusty
sweeps sent the smoldering fire roaring toward the top of the iron
forge. Since Kin's working the bellows made the iron cradle unnecessary,
Ian discarded it and personally attended to heating the wrought-iron
ribbon that was to be the barrel. An inch at a time he pounded it around
the shaping mandrel, getting it as near perfection as he could with the
rude tools at his command and waiting for his reamer and rifling bench
to make it perfect.

Except for the barrel he was making, Ian's concerns seemed to have
dissolved. He neither thought of nor looked at anything else. But for
Kin the task of pumping the bellows was even more onerous than it had
been before. Somewhere Isaac Shelby, and Reed Bowie, and Valentine
Sevier, and the handful of valiant spirits that accompanied them must
still be riding toward their rendezvous over the mountains. And when
they arrived there, what then? Shelby himself had said that he had too
few men to challenge Ferguson. And except for Sumter, whose best efforts
only worried his enemies, there was no threat to the British in the
south.

Kin glanced westward across the mountains. When the British had all the
Carolinas--if they made good on what seemed likely now and got them--it
was not beyond the realm of possibility that they would cross the
mountains too. Then where would Shelby and all the others go, and what
would they do?

Twilight came at last. Kin sighed his relief as he stopped pumping the
bellows and watched the fire die in the forge. For a short space he
looked disinterestedly on as Ian formed the end of the barrel around the
mandrel, with sure blows of his hammer welding shut every crack and
crevice in it. Ian was still too absorbed to notice Kin or anything
else. He worked with renewed energy, as though he feared the hobgoblins
that must come down with the night, and hoped that the sound of his
hammer and sight of the barrel he was shaping would keep them away.

"I'll go fetch Bonnie and milk," said Kin.

Ian did not look up and Kin raised his voice, "I'll go fetch Bonnie!"

Ian forged the last quarter-inch of barrel, and knocked the mandrel out.
He looked up and smiled, but it was the uncertain smile of a man who
seemed not to know exactly where he was or how he had come there. Kin
shifted his feet, awkwardly ill at ease. Dimly he remembered his mother,
and how the fun had gone out of Ian when she died. But Ian had still
retained his spirit, and now even that was gone. His father should not
be like this. If only Ian would roar a command, or even send Kin
staggering with a clout alongside the ear!

Kin turned on his heel, and walked across the field into the forest. He
had thought that after the endless day it would be a relief to be away
from the forge and Ian. But the forest that he had once considered so
huge had mysteriously shrunken to the very narrowest of limits. And the
little imagined adventures he had always enjoyed on his routine task of
bringing the cow home to be milked were no longer present to add zest.
He knew that his part in the battle of Musgrove's Mills had been almost
as insignificant as his defense of the cabin when Reed Bowie had been
attacked by the Tories. He had fired his pistol. But he had taken no aim
and probably he had hit nothing. However even being at such grips with a
flesh and blood enemy had forever destroyed his imaginary foes. But
another feeling plagued him too, a sensation of great restlessness and a
longing to return to those soldiers whom he had so gladly left.
McKenzie's Gap, if it had been dull before, was twice as dull and devoid
of promise now.

Kin found Bonnie grazing in the shade of a tulip tree and switched her
so savagely that the bell on the startled old cow's neck clanged as she
trotted homeward.

That night, when the milking was done and the supper dishes cleaned up,
Ian went to his bed and Kin to his pallet. His hand stole beneath the
mattress, and drew comfort from the feel of the pistol that Reed Bowie
had given him. For a long while he lay awake, hugging the pistol close,
and when he finally dozed off his clenched fist was wrapped tightly
about its hilt.

Ian was up and out when Kin awoke. Kin arose, gulped the remnants of
breakfast that his father had left, and went to the door. Ian had
already put sights on the rifle barrel he was making for Turkey-Trot
Logan, and was fitting to it one of the various stocks that he had
manufactured and laid away to season. Kin sat idly on an upended block
of wood and watched him pare away bits of the stock until it slipped
perfectly into place. Ian went into his gun shop, came out with a lock,
and began fitting it into place. The sun began its slow swing from east
to west, and was almost halfway around its appointed circle when both
Kin and Ian heard a significant sound that they had heard once before,
the galloping of a troop of horsemen on the Cota Springs trail.

Ian stood up, grasping the nearly-finished rifle in his right hand. Kin
remained seated, with his steady gaze fixed on the trail. He knew who
must be coming in such force, and presently he knew he was right, as a
company of mounted dragoons broke out of the forest into his father's
field.

Kin had never seen the dragoons' commander, but he knew that the slight
person who sat a magnificent Arab stallion as though he was part of it,
could be none other than Major Patrick Ferguson himself. Kin made an
almost involuntary motion toward the cabin. But Ian stood in his way,
and it was part of Ian's pact that his friends should be free to come
and go without molestation.

Ferguson spoke from the saddle: "Ho, friend McKenzie! I told that dolt
of a runner I sent you that one of my officers would call. But DePeyster
is in sick bay and Allaire has business with an ailing grandmother, whom
I suspect is about twenty years old and winks a wicked eye!"

Kin stared at this scourge of all who dared ally themselves with the
Rebels. Ferguson was a small man compared to most of the mountaineers.
But there was something about him that Kin had recognized in only one
other man, Isaac Shelby. Totally unlike in appearance, breeding, and
culture, Shelby and Ferguson still had very much in common. There was
the same flashing vitality, the same dauntless spirit, the same general
air of scorn that said the odds were nothing. Both men were intelligent.
But where Shelby had been blunt, Ferguson was cunning. It was impossible
to be close to Patrick Ferguson without receiving the definite
impression that nowhere on earth was there a man to match him.

Ian advanced to meet his guest, and a great pride leaped in Kin. There
was about Ian none of the deference with which the soldiers who
accompanied Ferguson seemed to regard him. Ian walked straight, as a man
should, and extended a hand to Ferguson.

"I am glad that ye saw fit to come yerself," Ian said. "How go the
battles?"

Ferguson's laughter rang through the clearing. "One way, friend
McKenzie, only one way! We put an end to Gates, as you no doubt know.
What you may not know is that we also caught the master brush-skulker of
them all, Sumter, and polished him up very prettily at Fishing Creek. No
more will he be a thorn in my Lord Cornwallis' side! To be sure we had
some small misfortunes at Musgrove's Mills, but such are to be expected.
The wonder is that we've had no more reverses, with the half-civilized
recruits this back country affords. Faugh! I'd as soon break a pack of
wild dogs to the rules of warfare! Rest easy, friend McKenzie. The few
of these bearded Rebels who still declare themselves against the King no
longer dare come out of their woods to do so. The end of the war is in
sight, and then these barbarians are going to regret their presumption!
But the friends of the King will never suffer, and you may wager on
that."

"Will ye dismount an' come in?" Ian asked.

"I'd like to! Faith and I'd like to rest in a Christian home without my
nostrils rebelling at the stink of the cheap rum that primes my
so-called army! But there's a few of these ridge-runners still to clean
up, and with that I come to the real purpose of this call."

"I'll do what I can to further the King's cause," Ian said quietly.

"Well spoken, friend McKenzie, and 'tis no more than we had expected
from you. You're a rifle-maker by trade, are you not?"

"Aye."

"And 'tis a marvelous rifle you make." The respect in Ferguson's voice
was tinted with envy. "I, too, have dabbled in your man's trade. Had I
the time to perfect the Ferguson rifle, these hard-headed woodsmen would
be facing a hail of fire the like of which they had never dreamed of.
Mine was a breech-loader, that could be handled without all this
ramrod-patch business. The trigger-guard was a lever that lowered the
breech plug, and left an opening in the top of the barrel. The ball was
dropped in there, and rolled forward to stop against the lands. You
could drop your firing charge behind the bullet, and close the breech
again. We used 'em at Brandywine. But with all those working parts, and
this damned unhealthy American climate, it got out of order too easily.
There's other things that needed the doing, such as making it a .30
rather than a .60 caliber, so twice as many bullets can be carried. But
it's the coming gun, McKenzie! A breech-loader's the coming gun, mark my
words!" Ferguson suddenly changed his tone. "How many rifles are in your
stock room now?"

"Twenty-one."

"Twenty-one! 'Tis a richer haul than I had thought to find! Twenty-one
of the men I can select armed with McKenzie rifles...! They'll be
a match for any hundred of these Rebels! I'll take 'em, and all you can
make."

Ian said gravely, "Ye canna hae them."

"Oh, come now. 'Tis not so much that we need rifles as it is that we
need rifles to match the ones these damned sharpshooters use. What are
your reasons for refusing?"

"I promised them to others," Ian said doggedly.

"What others?"

"Over-the-mountain settlers who ordered them an' need them."

"Ho, those dogs! You know as well as I that a promise to barbarians was
made to be broken, friend McKenzie."

"A promise is a promise, if ye make it to a dog," Ian replied stiffly.

"Do you still mean to refuse those rifles to me?" Ferguson's tone was
deadly, and his face had lost all of its friendliness.

"I do. I hae gi'en my word to others."

"All right," Ferguson said bluntly. "We're riding on. But we'll be back
this way tomorrow, with pack horses, and will pick up the guns then. But
I'll leave three men here to see that they don't 'accidentally' go
elsewhere. I never would have thought you a man with so tender a
conscience, McKenzie. It can only lead to trouble."

Ferguson wheeled his horse and at full gallop went back into the trail.
The soldiers streamed after him, save for three hard-faced men who
dismounted and began to prepare a bivouac in the clearing. Kin watched
them, and glanced wonderingly at Ian. Everything seemed to be happening
at once. Gates, the hope of the Rebels, had been crushingly defeated.
McDowell and Shelby were in full retreat over the mountains. Ferguson
himself had brought news of Sumter's defeat. And now, this.

But Ian was bending over his work, putting the finishing touches to the
rifle he was making for Turkey-Trot Logan. The three troopers picketed
their horses and, contemptuous of the two at the cabin, occupied
themselves with a pack of well-thumbed cards. The sun poured down into
the clearing, but still the air was charged with the tenseness that
precedes a sudden storm. Ian was a boiling kettle with no outlet, about
to burst in all directions at once.

With the coming of night, Kin drove Bonnie in and milked her. The three
soldiers sauntered over to watch and, when the pail was filled, one of
them snatched it out of his hand. Kin kicked it, and sent the milk
spilling in a snowy cascade over the trooper's natty breeches.

"Damned insolent brat!" he swore.

The back of his hand caught Kin across the mouth, and sent him
staggering away from the milking stanchion. The three soldiers laughed,
and bore what was left of the milk toward their bivouac in the meadow.
There was blood on Kin's mouth, and rage in his heart. He ran toward the
cabin, and ripped up his pallet to claw for the pistol. But something
seized his hand, and Kin looked up to see Ian's eyes burning into his.

Ian's tight lips formed the one word, "Wait!"

Kin rose uncertainly, and groped through the cabin's semi-gloom. Even
through his rage, he was gratefully aware that Ian was once more his
resolute self, the one who knew exactly what to do and how to go about
doing it. Kin heard leather rustle as his father drew a hunting knife
from its sheath.

"Where you goin'?" Kin asked nervously.

"Stay here!" Ian snapped, and went out the door.

Kin went to his pallet, and sat alone in the darkness, with the pistol
in his hand. He did not know what Ian was up to, but whatever else
happened, he could get at least one of the soldiers if they came to get
him.

So startling close that it seemed to be almost within the cabin, a rifle
cracked. It was followed by another shot, and another. A man yelled.
Wild-eyed and quivering, Kin ran to the door. But only the soldiers'
leaping fire was visible in the darkness. Then something very close to
the cabin moved, and there was the muffled clop of horses' hoofs. Kin
whipped the pistol up. But Ian's voice floated from the darkness.

"Come on!" It was the old Ian again, but a grimmer one than Kin had ever
heard before. "I hae the three horses! Help me load the rifles on 'em
an' we'll leave as soon as it's done. That bloodhound, Ferguson, will be
back wi' the morrow. I dinna care to be here when he finds what I hae
done tonight!"




7. _WESTWARD TREK_

[Illustration]


One of the horses, a big sorrel mare with a roached mane, lifted her
head and peered toward the fire. Her shrill whinny blasted the night,
and the other two horses danced at the ends of their bridle reins. Kin's
gaze followed the mare's, and he looked back at Ian. Even in his wildest
imaginations he never had pictured his father as a deadly knife fighter.

"Did you--did you get all three?" Kin gulped.

"'Tis time to put talk by an' do work," Ian said. "There are twenty-one
rifles to stow on two beasts. I'll carry my own gun an' ye had best hang
tight to yer pistol. 'Twas in my mind to make ye another rifle, but now
there is nae time."

Ian cut a raw-hide thong in two lengths and tied the sorrel mare and a
gray gelding. He stripped their saddles and bridles from them. A wild
startling song burst from him:

    "Shoot 'em, knife 'em, club 'em!
    Get 'em to a man.
    The bloody devils will get you,
    Any way they can!"

Ian roared the song at the top of his voice while he carried a buffalo
tallow candle into his gun shop and went to work there. Kin heard a saw
whining its way through wood, and the banging of a hammer as Ian drove
some of the iron nails he had fashioned from scrap metal. Those nails
had been another seven-day wonder in the back country; there was just no
end to the things Ian McKenzie could do with a piece of wood or a strip
of iron and a tool with which to work it. Kin peered in the shop's open
door. Ian was working on two strange-looking cradle-like affairs of wood
and iron, and shouting another of the apparently endless verses that
went to make up his song:

    "Then soldiers fixed their bay'nuts,
    An' looked around to find,
    Every man in the front ranks
    With nary a soul behind."

Kin shivered. But even while a part of him gave way to fear, another
part exulted at this strange father whom he had never seen before. The
thought occurred to Kin that Ian had gone suddenly crazy, as Charlie
Purdie had when he returned from hunting to find his wife and four
children murdered and mutilated by a roving band of Cherokees. But
people like Ian just didn't go crazy. When their worries and
responsibilities could no longer be borne, they found a solution for
them. Kin didn't know that after months of torturous indecision, Ian had
at last found himself. But he did know that some happy miracle had led
him to the side that Kin had prayed he would choose.

The fire in the clearing flickered and went out. The big sorrel mare
whinnied again, and there came the sound of her restless hoofs trampling
the grass before the cabin. Ian looked up to answer Kin's unspoken
question.

"'Twas no unfair fight," he said. "They had their chance. Ye heard the
shots."

"I heard them," Kin said steadily.

"Each man had his shot at me; then they were fools enou' to chase me
into the dark. War is a hellish thing; ye would know that had ye seen as
much of it as I. So I hoped for peace. But now that there is war, let it
be war all the way!"

"Why did you change sides?" Kin asked. "Was it because of Major
Ferguson?"

"I was a subject of the King," Ian said. "An' the bonds that tie a man
to his country are powerful ones. But some things are more powerful, an'
one o' them is a man's given word. An' the government that, through one
o' its powerful officers, asks me to break a promise is nae one under
which I care to live. There were other small factors, too. But yon big
mare is afraid now. Ye go lend her comfort while I finish work here--we
must have her tractable. We leave within the hour, an' fast an' cunnin'
must we travel. A pursuit will be sure an' our end swift should we be
o'ertaken."

Ian picked up a knife and gave his attention to one of the
wood-and-leather cradles he was fashioning. Kin walked back to the
tethered horses. He glanced once into the dark meadow. But the night
shielded what lay there and his mind refused to give the British
soldiers more than a passing thought. Death was not a new thing. Since
coming to McKenzie's Gap he had lived in its shadow. There had always
been raiding Indians out to kill anyone they could find. Besides, he had
seen men die before Reed Bowie's cabin and at Musgrove's Mills, and
soldiers traded in death, anyway. More than anything else Kin felt a
strange elation. He had cast his lot with the Rebels, a shaky cause that
bade fair to lead only to ruin. But in spite of the defeats that the
Rebels had suffered, and three major disasters had been theirs in almost
as many days, the fact that Ian was with them almost offset those losses
in his mind.

Kin approached the sorrel mare, and patted her neck. She blew through
her nostrils, and smelled him over. The mare, probably some settler's
riding horse unused to battle and the smell of blood, stopped trembling
as long as Kin remained near. But when he ventured a little way into the
darkness, she immediately nickered for him to come back. Kin sat down in
front of her.

A three-quarters moon broke through a rift in the black sky, and for a
few minutes the cabin, the gun shop, and the clearing were visible under
its pale light. Kin started anxiously, but settled back when clouds
again closed in over the moon. It was almost as easy to shoot by
moonlight as by day, and he and Ian might see enough shooting when day
came again. Tonight he hoped they would not have to fight.

Out in the gun shop Ian's hammer became silent, and he stopped singing.
Ian had become a Rebel because Major Ferguson had demanded that he break
his given word. It seemed a small thing, but yet Kin knew that it was
not small. Ian had built his entire life around a few such principles: a
man must earn his daily bread, he must do well whatever he did, he must
abide by the smallest promise, and he must live so that he need never
feel shame.

And Kin knew what the most potent of the other factors influencing Ian's
decision had been. He had sworn loyalty to the King. But the men of the
back country were his friends and neighbors, and to them he owed loyalty
too. Ferguson's demand had been only the final reason for his father's
joining the Rebels.

Ian came from the gun shop, carrying on his shoulders the two cradles he
had made. As he let them drop to the ground, the gray gelding laid back
his ears and made ready to kick. Ian doubled his fist and caught the
horse a smart blow in the ribs. The gray subsided--he knew a master when
he met one.

Ian grinned. "One horse so leery she's all but a-faint. Another all set
to kick anybody's ribs in wi'out givin' notice. 'Tis a smartly
turned-out pack train we hae, Kin. But we'll get the rifles over the
mountains to their rightful owners yet. Are ye scared?"

"Some," Kin said frankly.

Ian grinned again. "So am I. Ferguson is nae the man to relish havin'
his soldiers done away wi'. But maybe he'll give a second thought before
he lets them off their tethers again. Can ye manage the mare?"

"Sure. She's scared enough, but is all right as long as she knows she's
not alone."

"She will nae be long lonely once the rifles are on her," Ian promised.
"We'll stay close enou', for a dozen throats would be slit for less than
the load she'll carry. The pack saddles are a wee bit on the makeshift
side. But they'll do."

He picked up one of the two cradles that he had made and laid it on the
mare's back. She looked around to see what she was expected to carry
now, and turned to lay her muzzle across Kin's shoulder. Kin studied the
pack saddle curiously. Hanging down on either side of the mare's back,
it had wooden cross-pieces upon which the gun stocks would rest. At the
top were two more wooden bars against which the barrels would lean, and
a leather strap to hold each gun in place. There was space for five
rifles on either side. Hastily designed and hurriedly put together, the
saddles were still durable and built to fit a horse without galling or
chafing. Ian strapped it tight, and the mare moved up two steps to get
closer to Kin. The gelding laid his ears back and began rolling his
eyes. He snorted.

When Ian caught hold of the buckskin thong about his neck the gelding
reared and screamed, pawing the air with his front hoofs and walking
backward. Ian laughed, and let the buckskin go slack. With a little flip
of his wrist he looped it, and the loop caught around the gelding's
muzzle. Ian flexed his arms and dug his heels in the ground. He jerked,
and the gelding came down to stand still. When Ian worked hand over hand
up the rope, the gelding tried to bite. Ian's clenched fist caught him
on the nose, and the gray horse stood quietly. Ian laughed again.

"This horse has the true British spirit an' won't carry Rebel guns. But
I think he'll reconsider."

Ian strapped the other pack saddle on the gelding, and tied him to a
small tree. The sorrel mare followed them to the gun shop, and thrust
her head inside. Ian took two rifles from their racks and crowded by the
mare to strap them on the pack saddle. He went in for two more, and
continued loading guns until the mare was packing ten of them. They
rested five on a side, their long barrels thrust up at a forty-five
degree angle and each barrel passing next to the one on the opposite
side. Ian stepped back to look at the load.

"'Tis the best we can do," he finally decided. "Such a load may give us
some small bother should we come among trees with low branches. If so
we'll have to devise something else. The mare will nae cast her load as
long as she can have sight of ye, Kin. Let her go wi' ye to the house
an' make up a pack of food--a small one, an' take no meat. I'll load
that gray hellion."

The mare kept close beside Kin when he went to the cabin, and again she
thrust her head inside the door while he lit a candle and looked around
the one room. There was no regret, no feeling of sadness that he was
leaving this place so long called home. Now that he had accepted the
startling fact of Ian's becoming a Rebel he felt only a great
excitement. At last they were going west, into the wilderness of which
he had so often dreamed! Kin went to his pallet, uncovered the pistol,
and thrust it into his belt. As he slung the powder horns and bullet
pouch around his waist, the gelding's outraged squeal came from the
darkness, followed by Ian's sharp command.

Kin packed sacks with corn meal, salt, parched corn, and a few potatoes.
Beyond that there was nothing he could take. Most of the settlers' food
came from the forests in which they made their homes. He and Ian would
live on the game they shot and the wild plants they found, but that was
the way a man should live anyway. Kin leaned his father's rifle against
the outside cabin wall, and hung his powder horns and bullet pouch on a
wooden peg.

Ian led the still rebellious but loaded gelding up and tied him to the
hitching post before the cabin door. He put down a wrapped parcel that
Kin knew contained the bullet molds for the twenty-one rifles. Kin
looked at it.

"They're all packed together," he said. "How can you tell which mold
belongs to its rightful gun?"

Ian, who had more laughter in him tonight than in all the previous years
since Kin's mother had died, chuckled with pleasure.

"Even wi' all the muddle o' becomin' a soldier ye still did no forget
your gun makin', eh? I made the molds an' I'll tell 'em apart. This
disputatious geldin' needs a watchful eye. Suppose ye furnish it while I
go saddle the roan."

Ian disappeared in the darkness and Kin leaned against the cabin. He
closed his eyes--it was soothing to think of something placid if only
for a moment--while some of the gunsmith's instructions that Ian had
scolded and hammered into him ran through his mind. Working with only a
hammer and an iron mandrel, not even the finest gunsmith could make any
two barrels exactly alike. Their diameters would vary, therefore each
barrel had to have a bullet mold made especially for it. No, he hadn't
forgotten his gun making.

Kin opened his eyes to hear Ian riding by toward the gun shop. He came
back with a rifle, the odd one that had not been packed on the horses.
He put it into Kin's hands, together with a powder horn and bullet
pouch.

"It isna yours," Ian said, "an' ye are to remember that. Ye are to use
it only should we have to battle. 'Twill be more effective than a
pistol. Ride the roan, an' the sorrel mare will be your charge. I'll
ride the bay British horse an' keep the geldin' travellin'."

Kin mounted his father's saddle horse, and gingerly balanced the new
rifle across the saddle; a scratch on the stock or barrel would call
forth a severe reprimand from Ian. Shielded by the darkness he lifted it
to his shoulder and tried the balance. It was a finely-made weapon. But
the only rifle Kin cared to shoot or could use as a frontiersman should
use a gun was the one that Lieutenant Allaire had taken. Ian grasped the
gelding's lead rope and started off through the darkness. The roan
followed, and the sorrel mare kept close to the roan.

The first murky light of day found them far back in the wilderness. Kin
had passed out of familiar territory when they had forded the Santaree,
and had wondered where they were going after that. But Ian seemed to
know, and even in the darkness had kept away from all dangerous travel
where the horses might have fallen and been hurt. The roan had followed
Ian, and the mare would not venture far from the roan's side.

Kin saw that the gray gelding had been fighting both the pack it carried
and Ian most of the night. The horse's flanks were lathered, and it
panted on every little rise. As Ian's horse splashed through another
creek, the gelding drew back on his lead rope, and raised his feet high
to splash the water. Ian pulled him in, and the unwilling pack horse
resumed his trailing of the rangy bay.

"The fool has been doin' that most of the night," Ian called back. "He's
got a sore neck an' jaw by this time--I hope."

Kin marvelled. To his knowledge neither Ian nor anyone else had ever
come exactly this way before. Yet his father rode as certainly as though
he was on a road or trail that both he and his horse knew intimately.
And he handled the unruly gelding with all the ease of a professional
horseman. Kin knew only meager details of his father's youth: Ian had
been a cavalryman in countries so far off as to be almost mythical. But
now it was evident that Ian had learned a great deal in the King's
service. He certainly knew how to make vicious horses obey him and he
knew how to find his way through uncharted country. Probably, Kin
decided, he was travelling by the sun. But last night he must have just
gone west and guided his horse by the feel of the ground beneath its
hoofs.

Ahead of them rose a mountain a little taller than the rest, and Ian
swerved to ride straight toward it. His saddle horse tossed its head,
and tried to snatch a bit of grass. Ian reined him up and rode at a slow
walk up the mountain's gentle slope. Exhausted by his continual
fighting and rebellious spirit, the gelding drooped his head and plodded
along behind. Reaching the summit, Ian dismounted and looped the bridle
reins over his arm. He leaped aside when the gray whirled and aimed a
vicious kick at him. Kin rolled from the roan's saddle, and took a few
groggy steps while his legs threatened to roll from beneath him. But,
once his balance was readjusted, it was untold relief to stand again.

Rolling, forest-covered mountains stretched as far as the eye could see.
A lonely hawk winged his solitary patrol over one of them, and three
buzzards circled above a place where something had died or was about to
die. Kin felt a slight disappointment. The west his imagination had
created was a romantic place of endless excitement, with a Cherokee
behind every fourth tree and a herd of buffalo continually galloping
about. But now he was in the west, and it was only forest, and hawks,
and turkey buzzards exactly like those about McKenzie's Gap. Ian shaded
his eyes with his hand and squinted into the rising sun.

"Do you think we're bein' followed?" Kin asked.

"I well know that we are," Ian said. "A lesser man than Ferguson wouldna
bother. But he will. So here's where we start walkin', an' we'll walk
clear to the Watauga settlements."

"Why must we walk?"

"I'm goin' to chase the saddle horses away, an' hope that whoever comes
after us will come so hurriedly that they willna see the difference in
trails. O' course there'll be an Indian tracker, an' such a ruse will
nae throw him off for long. But e'en a quarter of an hour will help.
Today's the dangerous one. If we keep our hides until sundown, wi'
tomorrow's sun we'll be safe from all but Cherokees an' whatever other
mad things may abide in these fastnesses."

"How do you figure that?"

"Ye hae ridden wi' mountain men," Ian said simply. "Wi' tomorrow's sun
we'll be out o' British land an' in theirs. Unless Ferguson himself
leads it, no small patrol will dare follow. An' a small patrol it will
be; e'en Ferguson wouldna send an army after two men."

Ian looped the two riding horses' reins over the saddle horns and broke
a limber switch from a gum tree. He swished it through the air, cracked
the rangy bay across the rump, and the horse jumped like a startled
deer. Ian slashed the roan, and it leaped away to follow the bay. The
gray gelding snorted and started after them, but Ian gave a jerk on the
lead rope that brought him around and back. The sorrel mare looked on
with gently reproachful eyes.

"Why didn't you let him go an' keep your roan?" Kin asked.

"These are the strongest horses," Ian said briefly. "Come on."

Kin looked after the running horses, and speculated on what they would
do. Probably they would run a little way. Then, unless the pursuing
British caught them, they would circle and go back home. Kin chuckled.
It would be a neat turn of events if the British pursuers, starting from
McKenzie's Gap, should follow the horses back there again.

They entered a great beech forest and plowed their way through a sea of
fallen leaves. Innumerable other creatures, deer, bear, squirrels,
chipmunks, and a dozen varieties of birds had been there to help harvest
the rich crop. Their trails were everywhere, and in hundreds of places
they had scraped the leaves aside in their hungry search for the nuts
that had fallen underneath them. A huge black bear raised its head to
look at them and rambled leisurely away. The deer, craggy-horned bucks
watching over slender does, scarcely bothered to move aside. Certainly,
where beasts were so unafraid, man could not have hunted much. Then they
descended the mountain, crowded through a thick growth of brush, and
came suddenly on a small river.

It was unlike any other creek or river that Kin had ever seen. Its bed
was so colored with decayed vegetable matter that the water seemed
black, yet when Kin cupped his hand and scooped some up he found it
crystal-clear and very cold. Ian stood for a moment on its bank, and
looked at the sun to get his bearings. He spoke over his shoulder:

"Step in my tracks. Lead the mare as close as ye can in the geldin's
trail."

The gelding sat back on his haunches and tossed his head when Ian waded
into the river. Ian swore, and strained on the lead rope. Turning
sideways, the gelding tried to run, and Ian stumbled in the water. Kin
slapped the gray with the end of the mare's lead rope, and the surprised
gelding leaped from the bank into the middle of the river. Dragging Ian
with him, he splashed across. But once on the other side, within easy
reach of the big man's punishing fists, he became tractable. Ian's eyes
blazed.

"Of all the devil-possessed brutes! Were we out o' this I'd ride ye to a
stand-still an' show ye who's the better man! Come on!"

He led the gelding up the opposite bank and into the forest. The mare
followed willingly when Kin entered the water, and kept close beside him
as he stepped exactly in Ian's tracks. Five minutes later Ian swerved
slightly to the north, and in another half hour came to a bare ridge.

It was a long, rocky spine of land upon which no vegetation could find
root and from which the wind had blown all leaves. Running north and
south, it made a gash in the forest as far as the eye could see in
either direction. Ian led the gelding up it, and turned north. When he
came to where the creek split the ridge he fought the unwilling gelding
into the water again. Straight down the center of the creek he went,
walking so close to the gelding that the horse wisely refrained from all
protest. A mile and a half farther on they broke suddenly into a long
upland meadow.

A herd of elk, grazing in the dead grasses, raised their heads. A
magnificent bull with a towering spread of antlers stamped his foot
threateningly. When the cows drifted back toward timber the bull
followed reluctantly, looking back over his shoulder and craning his
neck toward these invaders of his harem's feeding ground. Ian lowered
his gun, and peered thoughtfully at a pine-covered ridge that reared
protectingly at the far end of the meadow.

"Yon is Strawberry Point," he announced. "An' if the beasties are to
carry their loads clear over the mountains they must have rest an'
fodder there."

Kin looked up. "How do you know the name of it?"

"Turkey-Trot Logan made me a map," Ian said. "'Twas in my mind that
chance might send me this way some time. We will climb the point."

Ian continued on down the creek, and led the gelding out of the water at
the foot of the ridge. The stubby jack pine, that from a distance had
seemed a heavy growth, was in reality only a straggling forest with
patches of grass between the trees. Reaching the summit, Ian tethered
the gelding to a jack pine and one by one unloaded the rifles. He lifted
the pack saddle off, and the horse rolled in the grass with all four
feet waving. When Ian turned toward the mare, Kin had already unloaded
her.

"Ye had best tie her, too," Ian said.

Kin tied the mare to another tree, and walked to where his father was
peering down the slope into the meadow. Ian tugged at his beard
reflectively.

"'Tis unlikely that Ferguson came back last night," he said. "His men
would be tired, an' would want sleep before a ride. At the earliest he
got back wi' sunup. Given he started the chase at once, an' his men are
comin' by daylight unencumbered wi' pack animals, they'll not get this
far in under five hours. We hae four hours to sleep."

Ian lay down with his back to one pack saddle, and Kin rested against
the other. For a moment he lay watching an indignant little yellow bird
perched in the tree to which the gelding was tethered and scolding at
the top of its voice. He grinned. The little bird was so excited and,
safe on its lofty perch, was calling that huge horse all sorts of names.
It was like ... like ... The bird faded out of focus, the
sunlight darkened, and Kin was asleep.

He awoke suddenly, and sat up. The gelding had walked around and around
its tree and, brought up short at the end of its rope, was standing with
ears erect. Kin saw his father sitting behind a tree just where the
slope began to dip. His rifle was in his hands, and others lay beside
him. In guilty haste Kin caught up his own rifle. He saw by the lowering
sun that it was late afternoon--Ian had let him sleep throughout the
day. A bunch of dead grass rustled when he brushed against it, and Ian
turned around.

"Come easy!" he hissed.

Kin crept to his father's side and peered down into the meadow. At the
far end of it were six men, five in the uniforms of British regulars and
the sixth wearing buckskin frontiersman's clothes. Kin gasped. The sixth
man, who must have guided the others this far, was Stink-Hard Joe. The
Indian gestured, and pointed toward the hill.

"How long have they been there?" Kin whispered.

"Ten minutes. That damned red man's guessed we're here an' would come
on. I think the others want to turn back before night o'ertakes them.
They must have left their horses back a bit. That means they know we're
near."

Kin's breath caught in his throat, and his hands tightened about the
rifle. If the six came on he and Ian could be sure of getting two. But
the other four would know how to take two men fighting from such open
country. Then a dragoon, evidently the leader of this scouting party,
talked for a moment with Stink-Hard Joe. When they stopped talking, all
six went back in the direction from which they had come. But Stink-Hard
Joe, glancing back a dozen times, went last.

"They hae gone," Ian announced. "We'll load the beasties an' push on
until darkness catches us."

For the next three days they travelled westward through forests so dense
and mighty that the very size of the trees made mites of the men and
horses crawling through them. They crossed rolling little ridges, and
entered another range of mountains whose haze-shrouded peaks stretched
in all directions. And Kin discovered that, after all, few of his dreams
of the west had been far-fetched or exaggerated. Deer and elk were so
plentiful that they were never out of sight. Flocks of turkeys, so tame
that they could be killed with clubs, strutted on the ground before
them. Every day they saw a dozen bears and unnumbered hordes of small
game. Once, in another little open meadow, Kin thrilled at the sight of
seven lumbering buffalo. He and Ian travelled fast but lived on the fat
of the land.

It was near evening of the third day that they found the first sign of
other human beings in this unspoiled and almost virgin wilderness.
Travelling down a shaded valley, following the bed of a turbulent
mountain stream, they stopped to examine a moccasin track in the soft
sand.

"'Tis that of a white man," Ian said. "Red men toe in more, an' do nae
tread so heavy. See here ..."

He stooped to examine the track, and a rifle cracked. The bullet smacked
into a tree that Ian had shielded with his body a second before, the
bark splinters flew. Kin and Ian leaped for other trees, and crouched
behind them with rifles ready. Then, out in the forest, another rifle
cracked. Then all was still for long minutes. Kin peered cautiously out
from behind his tree, but could see nothing.

"You kin come out now," a familiar voice said.

Kin whirled. Standing scarcely ten feet from him, having come there so
quietly that Kin had neither heard nor seen him, was a lanky hunter with
one arm in a sling and a bandage around his head.

"Tanse!" Kin breathed. "Tanse Willard!"

"Yup," the hunter grinned. He raised his voice. "Kelly, you an' Taylor
come over here."

Kin saw the beaded bag swinging from Tanse's shoulder, and knew it for
Stink-Hard Joe's war-bag. Tanse's eyes dropped to it, and raised to meet
Kin's.

"Yeh," he said soberly. "That damn heathen followed you an' come close
to gettin' you. Mebbe Ferguson would of made him a captain of scouts if
he had."

Kin gulped. Stink-Hard Joe, the vengeful, vindictive renegade, had taken
his soldiers back and come on alone to kill the McKenzies and take their
rifles. But he had met Tanse Willard, and Tanse could mark off one more
score in his memory book. Two other buckskinned hunters came up and
murmured clumsy acknowledgment to Tanse's introductions. Tanse shifted
his feet awkwardly.

"Well," he said, "we might's well start."

"Where to?" Ian demanded.

"Down to Kitten Toe."

"Nae," Ian said. "I hae a load of rifles for those who ordered them."

"Well," Tanse said. "Well ..." Then bluntly, "Look, Ian, this ain't
my doin's. But as soon as we got word that you was comin' we got orders
to bring you in. You ain't gonna be hurt or nothin'. But we do aim to
keep track of you. I guess you could call yourself a prisoner."

Kin marveled. What mysterious mountain grapevine had relayed the news
that he and Ian were coming? But his wonder soon changed to anger.

"You're barkin' up the wrong tree!" he flared. "We're both Rebels now!"

"I know you are," Tanse Willard said. "But I don't know you both are.
I'm tellin' you outright that a big stew's cookin' up, an' we're takin'
no chances of its news gettin' back over the mountains until we're ready
to serve it."

"I'm nae goin'," Ian said flatly. "I'll take these rifles to the men who
want them."

Tanse Willard said grimly, "You'll have a chance to deliver every rifle.
But you're goin'."

"Do ye promise?"

"That's two promises."

"Then," Ian said simply, "I'll go wi'out fuss or bother."




8. _KITTEN TOE_

[Illustration]


Ian led the gelding down the valley, and the mare followed behind Kin.
The three hunters stalked ahead, covering ground with the loose-kneed,
long-gaited stride of the professional woodsman and apparently conscious
of nothing save getting to wherever they were going. Kin worried, and
tried to see through the heavy woods on either side; it was impossible
to tell what might be lurking there and this was a poor time to get
careless. Then the three hunters stopped. Ian and Kin brought up behind
them and the man called Kelly went three hundred feet into the woods. He
came back driving a white and brown cow. Tanse Willard and Kelly
grinned.

"That's Tom Yeobright's cow," Tanse explained. "Every now'n then she
gets tired of her home stall an' lights out for tall timber. Tom'll be
glad to have her back."

"How'd you know she was there?" Kin asked.

"Kelly smelled her," Tanse said gravely. "He used to be the best
cow-smeller in Virginia until the constables found out what happened to
all the cows he smelled. That's why he come over the mountains." Tanse
laughed at Kin's puzzled face. "Shucks, you get so's you can tell 'most
everythin' in the woods if you stay in 'em long enough."

Driving the cow ahead of them, the three hunters continued on down the
valley. And for Kin one mysterious way of woodsmen was a mystery no
more. Of course Tanse had only been having a little fun with him when he
said Kelly smelled the cow. But the hunters had heard the cow moving.
Living in dangerous forests, their very lives depending on how alert
they remained, they had learned to interpret every sign and use every
sense. A squirrel scratching in the leaves would make one sound. But a
vigorous turkey gobbler would make quite another and a walking man still
another. A buzzard flapping across the sky would mean only that it was
on its way to carrion. But an excited thrush fluttering over its nest
meant that danger was near. Leaves rustling or grass moving was normal
enough when wind blew. But rustling leaves or moving grass when no wind
blew meant that something alive moved near or through it. The smell of
smoke might indicate a settler's cabin or an Indian encampment,
depending on how it smelled. And by such things the woodsmen lived.
Tanse, Kelly, and Taylor had all heard the cow, and all had known that
it was no normal forest sound.

Ten minutes later they came to the first ragged clearing.

Stumps still spotted the field, and in between them shocks of Indian
corn had been stacked. Pumpkins yellowed on the ground, and sunflowers
drooped wilted heads. At the edge of the forest were a great many dead
trees from which a strip of bark had been peeled. A few, already fallen,
leaned against sturdier neighbors or lay full-length on the ground. A
one-room log cabin, attached to which was a lean-to barn, stood on a
knoll in the center of the field, and Kin saw that within a hundred
yards of it in all directions every bit of foliage had been destroyed so
that no unseen enemy could come within shooting distance. A red ox was
hitched to a crude sledge loaded with corn stalks. When the hunters
walked openly into the field the man who had been driving the ox rose
from behind the sledge, and leaned his long rifle against it.

He was tall, and lanky like most of the mountaineers. Dressed in
deer-skins, the prevailing costume of the country, he walked down to the
trail and stood waiting for them. Kin saw a bearded man who bore the
marks of very hard work.

"Howdy, Tom Yeobright," Tanse hailed him.

"Howdy."

"We found your cow back in the woods," Tanse continued genially. "She
was makin' love to a buck deer!"

"Wouldn't put it past her," Tom Yeobright grunted.

Tanse asked casually, "Have ya heard that the Cherokees are on the
prod?"

"Yeh. They told me."

Tanse changed the subject. "How's the farm?"

The hollow cheeks suddenly took on color. "Couldn't be better. Give me
twenty year more an' I'll have the purtiest place this side o' the
mountains! Did ya know that I got wheat? Yes, sir, wheat! A hul
five-pound sack of the purtiest seed I ever knew or heer'd tell about! I
toted it over the mountains on my back. Just you wait an' see what I'm
gonna do with that seed. It'll mean bread, real bread!"

"Yes, it will," Tanse said soberly. "Well, I reckon we'll be pushin'
along. Come down to Kitten Toe if ya hafta," he added meaningly.

"I'll come," Tom Yeobright said, "if I hafta."

Kin looked once more at the stooped figure that had walked over the
mountains to work and who seemed only a dull clod until he spoke of his
farm. Then he came alive and showed that, after all, he was a man
possessed of a man's feelings. Kin glanced back at the farm, compared to
which the clearing and cabin at McKenzie's Gap were a palace and estate.
"I'll come if I hafta." The words themselves, as well as Tom Yeobright's
manner, had conveyed the impression that it would take more than the
threat of an Indian attack to separate the farmer from his farm.

"Why don't he go where he can be safe, if the Cherokees are comin'?" Kin
asked Tanse.

"Tom's put a lot of work in that place. He figgers on bringin' his wife
here come spring."

"But it's only a stumpy field an' a cabin."

"Tom don't see it thataway. He come over the mountains a year ago,
carryin' only an axe an' rifle. Manse Cullen had already started that
clearin', but he got careless around some Cherokees that wasn't. Tom's
done considdible work sinst then."

They passed another farm, almost an exact replica of Tom Yeobright's
save for a larger cabin and a detached barn. A man in the field,
assisted by a ten-year-old boy, took only time enough from his
harvesting to wave at the passing cavalcade. From the cabin's door a
gaunt woman shaded her eyes to look at them, and younger children clung
shyly to her skirts. A half-dozen red pigs rooted around the field and
chickens scratched busily before the door. Doubts began to assail Kin.
These over-the-mountain people were not the dashing heroes he had
pictured. Save for Tanse and the other hunters they were only farmers,
apparently on the verge of starvation and certainly poverty stricken.
From where among them would come the spirit needed when Ferguson marched
over the mountains or the Cherokees attacked? But maybe they weren't all
like that.

"Are there lots of farmers over here?" Kin asked.

Tanse grinned. "They're mostly that. Now'n then you ketch a long hunter
or a no-good woods runner like we'uns. But the biggest part are
hard-workin', God-fearin', respectable folk."

"Yeh, but all they seem to think about is gettin' their corn in."

"They're peecooliar thataway," Tanse said drily. "The biggest part of
'em got in the habit of eatin' regular, an' corn is what they eat most
of over here. 'Course it would be convenient-like if they could buy
vittles at a handy store. But in the first place they ain't got no
money, an' in the second place there ain't no store."

"Then why do they come way out here?" Kin asked.

"Because they ain't got no money, they can skimp along without stores.
On t'other side of the mountains most of 'em didn't have one shillin' to
rub ag'in another. How could they buy any land? An' land is what they
want. It's the only thing that's allus good, an' over here anybody can
have for the takin' as much as he can clear. What's more, they can hold
it after they get it."

"I see," Kin said.

But he didn't see. He had expected to find clearings. But with Cherokees
threatening from the west and Ferguson from the east, he hadn't expected
to find the owners of those clearings more concerned with getting their
corn in than with planning to beat back their enemies. The air was one
of general complacency; five pounds of seed were more important than the
Cherokees or the British.

The village of Kitten Toe was a half-dozen cabins in a five-hundred-acre
natural clearing, and a log stockade that enclosed several other small
buildings. Shooting buttresses extended over all four corners of the
stockade. A spring bubbled up in the center of it and sent a thin
trickle of water coursing down to a nearby river. A herd of cattle and
one of horses, watched over by a gangling boy who sat comfortably on the
back of a huge plow horse, grazed in the clearing. All about men,
women, and children were busy at the all-important task of getting the
corn in. Kin could not stifle his disappointment. This was the west, the
land of adventure and romance!

Kelly and Taylor swerved aside when they came to the stockade's open
gates, and Kin watched them walking toward one of the groups laboring in
the fields. Kelly laid down his rifle, picked up a shock of corn, and
heaved it to the top of a loaded sledge. Taylor walked past him to the
river, and sat on its bank with his rifle across his knees. The sorrel
mare nudged Kin with her nose, and he looked around to see Tanse and Ian
well within the stockade. Kin ran to catch up.

They walked toward a small cabin, and were almost at the door when it
opened and Isaac Shelby stepped out. He grinned.

"Well, Kinross McKenzie. You're a lucky sprig to get over them mountains
without havin' your ha'r lifted by a Cherokee."

"It was easy," said Kin, a little too casually. "My father was with me."

"Hm-m, so this is your father. You're a Tory, ain't you?"

"I was," Ian said stiffly.

"But not now," Kin interrupted. "He killed three British soldiers that
tried to stop us from comin'."

"Why'd they try to stop you?" asked Shelby bluntly.

"Ferguson wanted the rifles," Ian answered. "But he couldna hae them.
They were promised o'er here."

Shelby nodded thoughtfully. "You done a good piece of business,
McKenzie. But you know that you come among us with a sour reputation?"

"I know it."

"Just so we understand one another," Shelby said quietly. "You won't be
interfered with or harmed so long as you don't try to leave. The end
cabin is empty. You an' the boy are welcome to it, and we'll see that
you get some food."

Ian said stubbornly, "I journeyed o'er the mountains to bring these
rifles to their proper owners. Tanse Willard has gi'en his word that I
will hae the chance to do so."

"An' so you shall," Shelby promised. "It don't make a mite of difference
to us who gets 'em so long as it's over-the-mountain men. Good-night,
gentlemen."

Shelby went back into the cabin from which he had come. Tanse Willard
stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Well," he said finally, "ya got it straight from the Colonel hisself.
An'--an'--I hope ya don't think too harsh of me for fetchin' ya in!"

Ian said, "'Tis what I would hae ordered had I been in Shelby's place.
Will ye come to our cabin, or will ye be about affairs of your own?"

"I've got to go," Tanse said with relief. "But I'll see ya around."

He disappeared in the darkness, and Ian and Kin went to the cabin that
had been assigned them. They picketed the horses, and carried the rifles
inside. Ian picked up some of the ready-cut firewood beside the door,
threw it into the huge fireplace, and lighted it. The fire leaped up,
revealing a one-room cabin whose only furniture was a double bunk, a
table, and two chairs. Deerskins from which the hair had been scraped
hung over the windows. The floor was of packed earth. There were no
shooting vents, but inside the stockade they would not be needed. Ian
sat down heavily in one of the chairs.

"Well," he said, "here we are."

"You ain't mad about it?" Kin asked.

"An' why should I be? Affairs could no hae come to a better head had I
deliberately contrived them. E'er this trip is done we'll see a rare an'
wonderful thing."

"What do you mean?"

"More than ye may think. Everything needful for a mighty explosion is
here, an' needs but the spark to touch it off. I told ye weeks ago that
the British officers know little o' the men wi' whom they meddle.
Seein' them convinces me more than ever that I am right. The clash, when
it comes, will be huge an' bloody. The man Yeobright, the hunters, all
whom I hae met, are o' the highest caliber."

"Yeobright's only a farmer!"

"Aye, only a farmer. But he is one who'll fight tooth an' nail for what
he has. Did ye hae a few more years on your shoulders, ye'd see it for
yerself. Yeobright will nae be easily stirred to battle. But, once
stirred, he will outfight any two o' your professional fire-eaters,
because he has somethin' for which to fight."

"But Ferguson an' the Cherokees are both on the march, an' all these
people around here think of is workin' in their cornfields!"

"Warrin' red men are so much a part o' life here that nobody becomes
unduly stirred at them," Ian commented. "An' Ferguson is far enou' away
so that his very distance means security. These people know what it is
to march over the mountains. But, if he blunders, watch what will
happen."

"Yes, but ..."

"Answer the door," Ian directed. "Some one would speak wi' us."

The knock on the door was repeated, and Kin opened it. A plump,
pleasant-faced woman carrying a covered plate stepped in.

"My gracious!" she was saying. "When I heard of travelers from the other
side of the mountains here in Kitten Toe I just couldn't believe my
ears! I said to my man, Henry, that I just couldn't. By the way, my man
is Henry Wayne and I'm Mrs. Henry Wayne. But, as I was saying to Henry,
most of the travelers who get here are farmers or hunters who can talk
of nothing but their clearings or the last varmint they scalped, be it
Indian or four-footed. It amounts to the same thing, Henry says. Where
do you come from?"

"McKenzie's Gap, madam," Ian said.

"McKenzie's Gap, I don't know the place. I came to Charlotte as servant
to Mr. and Mrs. Notley. They used me well, then Henry married me and
brought me to Gilbert Town. We lived a year there, and came over the
mountains two years ago."

Her voice was heavy with longing, and wistful with thoughts of the life
left behind.

"I hae often been in Gilbert Town," Ian said.

"You have! Did you know the Trevors there?"

"I knew George Trevor."

"George and Elsie Trevor, the very ones! Henry and I lived next door to
them for more than four months. Tell me, what are the women in Gilbert
Town wearing now?"

"Well--sort o'--that is--dresses."

Bit by bit Mrs. Wayne jogged Ian's memory until she had almost an exact
description of the latest styles in Gilbert Town. She wormed from him
other bits of homely, intimate news for which she hungered. And when at
last she rose to go, as though it was an afterthought she laid down the
covered pan.

"I've brought you some johnny-cake. It's not the best but maybe you can
choke it down. As I always said to Henry, men are so helpless when it
comes to fixing for themselves. Well, I must go. Henry said to turn your
horses loose so they can forage. The stockade gates are closed, and
they'll join the herd. He says that the boy will take them out tomorrow
and bring them back."

"I thank ye, madam," Ian said. "An' I will thank Henry."

Kin opened the door, and when Mrs. Wayne paused for a last good-night he
blurted the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since she
had entered.

"Wouldn't you like to go back?"

She laughed. "Bless you, honey, no. It was a nice place with many
comforts. But over here we have something to call our own. Well, for the
last time, good-night. Lord knows I didn't mean to gossip so long, but
it was such a comfort. We'll see you around. Drop in to any house when
you get lonesome."

The next morning, when Kin woke up, Ian was working bear oil into the
locks and working mechanisms of the rifles he had brought over the
mountains. Kin ate breakfast, some of Mrs. Wayne's delicious
johnny-cake, slices from a roasted haunch of venison that another
neighbor had brought in the early morning, and butter. For a moment he
loitered idly, watching his father oil the guns--a task that Ian allowed
none but himself to do. Kin sauntered to the door, and opened it to
confront a cocky, red-haired youth his own age. The red-head grinned,
displaying two gaps where front teeth should have been.

"My name's Red Scott," he said, "an' I kin lick you."

Kin sprang from the door straight upon his challenger, and for the
moment his surprise attack gave him the advantage. But Red Scott was
wiry as a mink and slippery as an eel. He wriggled from beneath Kin and
stood up to swan-dive back on top of him. Kin locked his arms about the
other's waist, and they rolled over and over in the grass, pummeling
each other as they rolled. Blood streamed from Kin's nose and oozed down
to his lip. But Red Scott had a black eye and a bruised forehead.
Finally, both breathless, they stopped. Kin sat up and blushed at the
excited ring of onlookers that the fight had attracted. A gray-haired
man who leaned on a cane cackled, "He got ya, Red. You tackled the wrong
rooster this time!"

The red-head's grin widened.

"Hey, you ain't so bad!" he said to Kin. "Wanna go fishin'?"

Kin grinned back. "Aye."

"Now I know you're a furriner," Red Scott said. "Did ya come from across
the mountains?"

"Aye."

"Aye, aye," the red-head mimicked. "Don'cha know nothin' else?"

Kin wiped the blood from his nose and said seriously, "Well, I know you
hurt me a lot more than the British at Musgrove's Mills was able to."

"Was _you_ there?"

"Oh, sure," Kin said easily. "Me'n Shelby fought the British back in
good shape."

"Seems to me that I heard tell about a couple of others too," Red
observed drily. "I guess it was a nice little scrummage though. Of
course, if a man wants real stuff, he ain't seen it until he's fit
Cherokees. I mind the time when I fit back sixty or seventy, an' ..."

"Milked the cow with your free hand," Kin interrupted sarcastically.

"Aw, I've seen plenty of Injuns; wunst a big war party come outside
Kitten Toe. But we socked 'em right back into their ol' woods. Maybe I
ain't fought no British. But I bet I seen as much fightin' as you have."

"Mebbe so," Kin agreed condescendingly. "But you never fought British
regulars."

"No," Red Scott sighed enviously. "I never did. But I allus hoped to
have a whack at 'em. Come on, furriner. We'd best go fishin' if we're
goin'. I got to be back an' help harvest."

They overturned flat stones in the river's shallow edge, and caught the
little crayfish that scuttled away from beneath them. Red Scott produced
a fishline and hook, baited it with one of the crayfish, and whirled the
weighted line about his head. The line sailed far out and struck with a
little splash on the river's placid surface. Almost at once a fish took
the bait, and the boy unceremoniously hauled in a three-pound bass. He
rebaited and caught another bass, and another until he had eight.
Reluctantly he coiled the line and put it in his pocket.

"Well," he said, "I reckon I got to go heave corn shocks for a spell.
Paw'll whale the tar outen me if'n I don't."

For two hours after Red had gone to work Kin loitered about the clearing
and in the stockade. Then, driven by boredom to seek action of any
sort, he went into the fields and helped the busy men, women and
children who were gathering the corn. It was hard, sweaty work with no
respite save for the noonday meal, then back to the fields again. Kin
was so tired when night came that he could only gulp a hasty supper and
roll into his bed. But the next day inaction again drove him to the
fields.

Then, when the harvest was finally in, there was corn to strip from the
ear and corn meal to grind. And throughout all of it Kin was troubled.
Definitely life in the west was not as he had pictured it. Save for an
occasional spontaneous party, the whole lives of these settlers seemed
only relentless toil. There was an undercurrent of something else that
Kin understood only vaguely. No one person who lived here had more than
enough to eat and a place to sleep. But all seemed contentedly working
toward some goal that a not too-distant day would surely bring. And Kin
wondered because he did not know what that goal was or how anyone was
going to realize more than they already had.

True, the west had its other side too. Men drifted in from the
surrounding forests, stayed an hour or a day, and departed with one of
Ian's rifles. Buckskinned hunters and trappers availed themselves of
Kitten Toe's open hospitality and went again. But these last, at least
to the general public, talked little of what they had seen or done.
Shelby came and went, and various men conferred with him in his cabin.
None of the visitors caused much stir or were considered anything out of
the ordinary. Kin wanted to talk with some of them. But none seemed to
have time.

Then, one dreamy, frost-tinted day in late September, the man on watch
in the eastern shooting buttress called to another on the ground. The
second man went to a huge strip of iron that dangled from a small tree,
picked up a piece of hardened hickory, and began to beat furiously on
the iron alarm. People streamed in from the fields, and the herd boys
hurried the stock inside the stockade. Men stood about with rifles in
their hands, and a few mounted the shooting platforms. Then the lookout
laughed, and called down,

"Hey, it's Bill Smith."

The stockade gates were flung open and rifles disappeared. Kin ran with
the rest to the open gates, and peered out, unbelieving. The rider
ambling leisurely toward them was William Smith, the rifleman whom he
had last seen desperately wounded at Musgrove's Mills. He waved his hand
as amiably as though he had only been on a two-hour visit to a neighbor.
Plainly he was enjoying the surprise he had created.

"Howdy, folks. Howdy. Is the Cunnel in?"

Shelby hurried from his cabin, and grasped the returned soldier's hand.
His hearty laugh rang out, and Kin thought that never before had he
heard such genuine pleasure in any laughter.

"Bill! They couldn't keep you!"

William Smith dismounted, clumsily catching his weight on his left leg.
"Easy thar," he cautioned. "I still got a chunk of lead in me. I didn't
get away, Cunnel. Ferguson brang his army to Musgrove's Mills not an
eye-wink after the fight we had thar. He gimme the best of care, he did.
An' soon's I was able to ride he on-loosed me to carry a tale to you
personal."

"What is it?"

"He said--now lemme think to get the cut of it. He said," William Smith
enunciated painfully, "that if the people over here do not desist from
their opposition to British arms, he will march his army over the
mountains, hang their leaders, an' lay waste their country with fire an'
sword. Thar! It's out!"

The assembled men murmured among themselves. Shelby laughed again.

"He said that, did he? Come on up to my cabin, Bill. I want to have a
little pow-wow."

Shortly after sunup the next morning, Tom Yeobright came down the trail
driving his red ox and his cow. He carried only a rifle and axe.

"Howdy," he said briefly, sinking his axe to its head in a post beside
the stockade.

"Howdy, Tom," Henry Wayne answered.

"I heer'd a man named Ferguson is headin' this way with fires an' swords
an' hangman's ropes," Tom Yeobright stated.

"I reckon he is."

"Well, what are we waitin' for?"

"The Colonel. He went away this mornin'. But he'll be back."

"Did he say he would?"

"Yup."

"Then he will," Tom Yeobright said. "I'll wait."

Just before dark two more settlers came in and swung from their horses.
One of them conferred a moment with Tanse Willard, and immediately
remounted. He called from his horse,

"Seein's how the Cunnel ain't startin' right off, I'll be a-goin'. I
left my wife an' kids packin', an' they can use help."

More men drifted into the stockade, those with families bringing them.
They came without fuss or pomp, but within three days Kin counted sixty
that had not been there before and the cattle and horse herds that
grazed in the clearing were of sizable proportions now. The last to come
in was an old, white-bearded hunter who carried two chickens in one
hand and a smooth-bore musket as ancient as himself in the other.

"I done heard somebody's gonna hang Ike Shelby an' Chucky Jack Sevier,"
he chuckled. "I wanna be around when they try it. It oughta be fun.
Where's Ike?"

"Gone to see Chucky Jack, Uncle Dobb," a man answered. "But he'll be
back."

"Yeh. I guess he'll be back. An' by cracky I'll pad along when he goes
to meet that thar hangin' man. Hang us, sword us, burn us, will he?"

On the twenty-fourth of September Shelby rode back into the stockade. He
sat his stallion in the center of it, and waited for Kitten Toe to
gather around.

"The meetin' place is Sycamore Shoals," he said. "Whoever's goin' leaves
from thar. Everybody from Kitten Toe as wants a hand in it leaves now."

Kin hurried away to collect what little they had to take. Within half an
hour the men with horses mounted them, and the dozen or so without
mounts were forming an awkward line. Besides his rifle, each man carried
a blanket, a cup, and a wallet filled with mixed corn meal and maple
sugar. Kin saw Mrs. Henry Wayne push her husband away from her, and
heard her say,

"Get on with you! That hangman will take some licking! And there's
enough of us left to take care of any Cherokees. But, the Lord go with
you, Henry!"

She turned away, and Kin saw tears in her eyes. He turned away in
confusion and he saw Ian, leading the sorrel mare and the gray gelding,
for which he had somehow managed to obtain saddles and bridles. Ian put
the reins of the two horses in Kin's hand, went to Shelby, and said
steadily,

"If ye can use two more men, both of whom hae seen fightin', I can offer
the services of my son an' myself."

For a second the two men faced one another.

"Mount," Isaac Shelby said gruffly. "Mount an' ride."




9. _THE ARMY_

[Illustration]


Shelby led the ragged little army from the stockade. The horsemen,
mounted on everything from rabbit-sized ponies to heavy-footed plow
horses, rode Indian-file behind him. Fourteen who lacked horses marched
in the rear and drove a dozen beef cattle. At first they tried to
maintain some sort of military step and order. But the cattle were
fractious and uneasy about leaving their home pastures. Led by a
blunt-horned, white-faced bull, they tried to stampede. The foot
soldiers lost all semblance of military dignity as they scampered about
to herd them back. Uncle Dobb whacked the bull across the rump with the
barrel of his antique smooth-bore, and a laugh went up from the women,
children, and old men who had followed the army from the stockade.
Suddenly Kin looked with sharp alarm at those who were being left
behind.

He had almost forgotten the Cherokees. But nobody had as yet said
anything about the Indians forsaking their announced intention to raid
the settlements, and every able-bodied man was riding with Shelby. Kin
spurred the sorrel mare and caught up with Tanse Willard.

"How many's goin' to fight Ferguson?" he asked.

Tanse shrugged. "All of us, I hope. Leastwise we're all gonna start.
Mebbe some won't git thar."

"Yeh, but nobody's left. Who's gonna fight the Cherokees if they come?"

"The women, kids, an' old men."

"How can they?"

"With guns, ya numskull. Did ya think they aimed to scratch their eyes
out?"

"But they can't fight."

"Oh yes they can. Some of 'em can sling as straight a rifle ball as any
man in this line."

"They're all alone!"

"Not all alone. All the fightin' men ain't here. Some are hangin' close
to the Cherokee villages, watchin' 'em. If a war party cuts loose those
men will head for the fort. That can't be starved out an' will be damn
hard to take."

"Aren't the men worried?"

"Sure. But what good's it do 'em? The Injuns can an' will be took care
of in time. But right now the question is either whalin' the tar out of
Ferguson or havin' him whale it out of us. We kind of got to take the
fust thing fust."

"Oh," Kin said soberly.

He dropped back to his place beside Ian, with a sudden feeling of
humbleness. For the first time he began to get a true conception of the
west and the people who dared challenge the wilderness there. After
imagining it a place of romance and excitement, he had found it a land
where people toiled most of their waking hours for a meager living. Now
the adventure had come. Stripped of its glamour, it was nothing less
than a threat of disaster to all who dared oppose either the British or
the Cherokees. Asking no help and expecting no quarter, the
over-the-mountain people were rising to meet that threat in the best way
they knew, and it was an inspiring way. This was no collection of paid
or conscripted soldiers, but a spontaneous gathering of free men who
were in arms to defend that freedom for which they had risked security
and now were risking their lives.

Ian stole a sideways glance at Kin and said quietly, "Boy, ye are
beginnin' to think."

"Yes," Kin said. "Yes. I guess I am."

Somebody yelled, "Bring me a British scalp, furriner. I'll swap ya two
Cherokees for it!"

Kin looked down to see Red Scott standing beside the line of march. The
red-head clutched an old musket in one hand, and had stuck a rakish
coon-skin cap on top of his head. But his eyes were wistful and heavy
with longing. Kin, no older than himself, was going off to battle the
hard-fighting British. He was staying home to occupy himself with
familiar, and therefore thoroughly despised, Indians. Kin pulled on the
reins to make the sorrel prance, and raised his pistol.

"Ya needn't be so hifalutin'," Red Scott hooted. "Look, I got a gun,
too!" He waved the old musket.

"Shoot it straight, Red," Kin called earnestly.

"I'll sure 'nough try," Red Scott answered. "Don't let that horse bite
ya."

The marching men resolutely turned their backs on Kitten Toe, and none
looked back any more. But something invisible was there, as though the
men who followed Shelby were simultaneously sending back a prayer for
the homes they loved and the loved ones who remained in them. Kin found
himself, along with the rest, wishing with all his heart that the crude
little settlement called Kitten Toe would be spared all danger, would
be there to greet and receive and shelter these men when they returned
from their wars.

For nearly an hour the deep silence was broken only by the sound of the
plodding horses' hoofs. Then suddenly there came the sound of Uncle Dobb
swearing at the white-faced bull, and again the hearty whack of his
rifle against the bull's rump. That broke the spell. A rider began to
sing, and the rest joined in.

    "I walked clean over the mountains,
    My true love for to see.
    But all I found when I got there,
    Was a bloody Cherokee.

    Oh I stopped to see my honey,
    An' my honey says to me,
    'You better git your rifle gun
    'Cause there's a Cherokee.'"

A couple of high-spirited frontiersmen raced their horses out of line
and through the forest. They wheeled their mounts and came speeding
back. Then there was a great argument as to whose horse was the swifter
and which man the better rider. The rest of the army joined in, taking
sides.

Uncle Dobb, who seemed to cherish a particular aversion to the
white-faced bull, came running past berating that stubborn beast with
vigorous curses and the muzzle of his rifle. The bull swerved into the
woods, and back to the beef herd at the rear.

"Ye hae a tough 'un, Grandfather," Ian called amiably.

Uncle Dobb stopped to glare.

"Don't call me Grandfather!" he snapped. "I ain't but seventy-one. Time
you young whipper-snappers seen as much of this as I have, mebbe ye'll
begin to know what it's all about!"

"No offense meant," Ian said contritely, winking at Kin.

"Then none will be took," Uncle Dobb smiled. "How old's that boy of
your'n?"

"Fifteen," Kin said quickly.

"He's fourteen an' will be fifteen," Ian corrected. "Fourteen to
seventy-one, a nice range for soldier's ages, wouldna ye say?"

"Sure would," Uncle Dobb agreed heartily. "Well, I gotta go see to that
bull. I swan, he's the peskiest critter I ever see."

He went running off after the bull. The soldiers, save for a few like
Tom Yeobright who plodded along as though this was an unwelcome task to
be dispensed with quickly, were singing again. Then, as the miles
dropped behind them, most were contented merely to sit loosely in their
saddles and ride along. Only a few of the most unquenchable spirits
still whooped and sang, and chased each other through the forest. It was
nearly dusk when the tired horses pricked up their ears and stepped
along a little faster. Jaded men sat erect in their saddles. They had
ridden over a hill, and the valley below them was filled with blue wood
smoke. Ten minutes later they rode down to the river flats known as
Sycamore Shoals.

Hobbled horses whinnied at them. Men gathered around, some few in the
blue and buff uniforms of the Continental militia. But even most of the
militia had only the part of a uniform, a cap, a jacket, or a pair of
boots, to establish their military rank. By far the greater part of the
assembled men were dressed in buckskin woodsman's garb. Most of them had
a buck's tail stuck in their hats or caps, and those who lacked one
sported a sprig of holly or mountain pine. Good-natured jeers and
catcalls greeted the latest arrivals.

"The war's pra'tically over. The boys f'm Kitten Toe is here!"

Then suddenly a high-pitched, angry voice cut like a knife blade through
the confusion.

"Whoa thar! Whoa thar! Blast yer hide! Whoa thar!"

Head close to the ground, the white-faced bull came thundering past.
Hanging to a long rope that he had tied halter-fashion about the bull's
head, Uncle Dobb was taking titanic steps in the wake of his fleeing
charge. The soldiers scattered. A hundred feet farther on Uncle Dobb
snubbed the rope around a tree, brought the bull up suddenly, and began
to administer a suitable punishment with the barrel of his old gun. He
stopped, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked up.

"He's the cussedest critter! I never see'd the beat of him in all my
born days!"

"Git down, boys," said a grinning sergeant. "Git down an' find a place
to toss yore blankets. We got about a hunnert an' ninety more of
Shelby's men here. They's two hunnert an' fifty of us with Chucky Jack
Sevier an' mebbe two hunnert of McDowell's. Git down an' come in."

The men from Kitten Toe dismounted, hobbled their horses, and turned
them loose to forage. The white-faced bull uttered a throaty bellow and
stamped truculently toward a herd of cattle feeding in the meadow. Kin
sat gratefully down with his back against a Spanish oak and studied the
encampment. Nothing, he thought, could look less like a company of
soldiers. The rough, independent force that had elected to be led by
Shelby and Sevier were as unlike Ferguson's disciplined men as anything
that could be imagined.

For a mile down the open river bed their camp fires twinkled in the
darkness. Men sat in groups about them, hooting and whistling or
shrieking Indian yells. Others stretched on the ground with their single
blanket over them and slept. Groups of riders dashed here and there, and
the occasional lone recruit who drifted into camp was invariably greeted
by the hoots and yells of whoever he happened to meet first. Far down
the river a group of Sevier's mountaineers were bawling,

    "The soldier he carries his knapsack and gun,
    An' swears at the weight as he tramps through the sun:
    But devil a loon, did I ever hear tell,
    Who swore at the weight of the Jolly Bott-el.

    So heave an' ho, an' trombelow,
    The Jolly Bott-el is a feather I trow."

Kin nestled a little closer in his blanket while a drowsy warmth crept
over him. And somehow, despite the lack of military order, everything
seemed exactly as it should be. The camp, the boisterous soldiers, the
wild, uncouth song, were all part of a picture whose pieces were slowly
being fitted together. Only when Kin thought of Ferguson and the
powerful forces at his command did a twinge of fear cross his mind. But
there was no room for many disturbing thoughts because the drowsy warmth
had become a delicious, dreamy lassitude. Twice during the night he
awoke to see the fires burning low, and only alert sentries moving among
them.

The cool, moist dawn was making its first stealthy approach on the camp
when he awoke for the third time. Smoke from freshly kindled fires
curled upward and blanketed the valley. During the night three beeves
had been slaughtered and the awakening soldiers went to them, cut off
meat to fit their desires, and cooked it at one of the fires. Ian
stirred, and almost before he was awake reached forth a hand to grasp
his rifle. He sat stiffly up, and grinned at Kin.

"Gettin' old, I reckon. Let's go rustle some rations."

They went to one of the beef carcasses, and Ian cut off a huge steak.
Five men, whose green-fringed shirts proclaimed them to be of Sevier's
regiment, moved over to make room for them at a fire. Three of them, a
beardless youth of nineteen and two middle-aged woodsmen, were gazing
with ill-concealed dislike at the other two. Kin looked at them. Both
were young and, judging by the sizes of the steaks they had cut for
themselves, both possessed of huge appetites.

"As I was sayin'," one of them declared, "this army ain't goin' to
nothin' 'cept its own funeral. When we meets up with Ferguson"--he
snapped his fingers--"it'll be over."

"Aw, you're full of smoke talk," a woodsman growled sulkily.

"Am I?" the other demanded. "Tell 'em what you know about Ferguson's
Rangers, Sam."

"Jest what ever'body who ever see'd 'em knows. Them Rangers of his'n is
as hard as nails an' twic't as hard to chaw. I seen two of 'em tackle
nine of we'uns an' kill every one. Nope, no ordinary army stands a
chanst ag'in Ferguson."

"This," Ian said quietly, "is no ordinary army. Besides, though I'll be
the first to say that Ferguson is no ordinary enemy, I ken that ye hae
o'er-estimated him a bit."

"What do you know of Ferguson?" Sam demanded truculently.

"I think a mite more than you do. He has been triumphant. But, though
the legends he likes to spread may lead to other convictions, he is nae
a super-man. He can, must, an' will be thoroughly trounced. If he is nae
whipped in battle, rest assured he will do as he has promised."

"You fool!" Sam said bitterly. "Maybe you ain't been told that Shelby,
Sevier, Campbell, McDowell, an' all the rest of the high mucky-mucks is
aimin' to skip out to Louisiana an' live with the Spanish if we git
licked? They don't give a hooty-owl's hoot about us! All any of 'em hope
to do is loot them rich Tories an' pay for it with our blood!"

Ian said harshly, "More of that talk, friend, is aye likely to get ye a
muck o' trouble. But I'm takin' the charitable view, an' thinkin' that
ye know nae better. If we are whipped, every man o' us had best go to
live wi' the Spanish. But we won't be whipped. To begin wi', this army
can stand against any other equal in numbers. To end, Ferguson canna
know we are on the way. An' the element o' surprise is worth a second
army."

Sam wiped his fingers on his shirt and got up. "Don't say you wasn't
told," he said testily.

The two walked away and lost themselves in the awakening army. One of
the woodsmen looked after them, and turned troubled eyes on Ian.

"Whadda'ya s'pose he told us that for?"

"I dinna ken," Ian said thoughtfully. "'Tis a common practice of hostile
armies to send such gloomy, fearful men, under the guise of
friendliness, among their enemies. But we hae no proof. 'Tis best to
think them loose-tongued laddies who ken no better than to chatter in
such fashion, an' watch them. But Ferguson's Rangers are nae so hard as
they are painted. Armed wi' the knife I wear at my belt, I myself killed
three who opposed me wi' rifles."

"Did ye now?" The woodsman's troubled face relaxed. "How'd ye do it?"

"'Twas no great feat," Ian said. "Ye could do the same, gi'en the same
circumstances. What are the names o' yon buckos?"

"Sam Chambers an' a feller called Crawford. I never see 'em 'til they
joined up with Chucky Jack."

Ian thrust a limber green twig through the steak and held it over the
fire until the fat began to drip and the edges curled. Quickly he turned
it over to sear the other side, and hold in all the juices. When it was
broiled he withdrew it from the fire and divided it with his knife. He
and Kin ate hungrily, seizing the hot meat in their hands, wolfing it
down, and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands.

The whole army was now astir, those who had caroused throughout most of
the night grumbling protests as they rolled from their blankets.
Soldiers swarmed about the three beef carcasses, and others edged into
empty places as soon as they were vacated. Men were going toward the
hobbled horses that had been collected in a herd, and cutting out their
own mounts. Shelby strode to a grassy knoll and whistled, and his huge
stallion broke from the herd to come running toward him. For a bit
master and horse, the one stroking with hands and the other with soft
muzzle, caressed each other.

By the time the sun broke over the mountains the army was ready to move.
Horses, loaded with their meager baggage, were tethered to convenient
trees or rein-haltered to the ground. The men from Kitten Toe and the
country around it were gathered together watching the last-minute
hustlings and scurryings about the camp. But the army was a unit now, by
virtue of having slept, talked, and eaten together, and all hoots and
jeers were a thing of the past. Tanse Willard and Henry Wayne, both of
whom had been appointed lieutenants at last night's officers' meeting,
moved among them with new authority.

"You seen Uncle Dobb?" Tanse called to Kin.

Kin looked around. All the horses had been caught and saddled, but two
dozen cattle still wandered about the camp site. Tom Yeobright and the
rest of those who had no horses stood ready to march, but Uncle Dobb was
not with them. Kin shook his head.

"Ain't he with the bull?" someone offered.

"Nah! We're leavin' the cattle behind anyhow on account they slow us up
too much. I reckon one night's campaignin' was enough for Uncle Dobb.
He prob'ly snuck out of camp an' went back to Kitten Toe. We start in
ten minutes. But fust the hul army collects at that big pine over
there."

In the center of the meadow a towering pine reared its craggy length,
and Kin and Ian joined those who were walking toward it. Kin tried to
estimate the number of men, for the first time gathered together in
broad daylight. He turned a puzzled glance on Ian.

"Two hundred an' fifty with Shelby, the same with Sevier, an' two
hundred of McDowell's men, the sergeant said. But it looks to me like
more'n seven hundred men."

"There's nine hundred," replied Ian. "While ye slept last night, Colonel
Arthur Campbell arrived wi' two hundred more. But we'll need every man;
Ferguson commands nigh on to fifteen hundred."

The ring of men about the pine stood awkwardly with their hats or
coon-skin caps in their hands. A few, more familiar with the
proprieties, even bent their heads. Kin glanced beneath the elbows of a
huge mountaineer who stood in the front row and saw a black-robed
minister in the center of the ring. His features were sharp, hawk-like,
and among those bearded mountaineers, startlingly clean-shaven. There
was about him a certain air of gentleness and piety that few of the
mountaineers possessed. Tanse, standing beside Kin, whispered
respectfully,

"That's the Reverend Samuel Doaks. Many the man dyin' with a Cherokee
arrer through him has been helped to Heaven by that man of God. An' many
a woman who might have been drove mad by lonesomeness an' danger has
found peace through him. He's a wunnerful man."

"Aye," said Ian, "and a wonderful sight that would hae appealed to the
Prophet Isaiah: 'The noise of a multitude in the mountains, like as of a
great people: the Lord of hosts mastereth the host of the battle.'"

The black-garbed minister crossed himself and intoned his prayer in a
quiet but far-reaching voice that all heard.

"Almighty God, our men are going forth to face those whose hearts have
not been stirred to compassion. Watch over them, Lord, wherever they may
be. It is against Thy word to kill, we know. But in our human frailties
and blindness we see no course save that of destroying those who would
destroy us. And we pray You, Who are ever with the righteous, to put
into our hands the sword of the Lord and of Gideon."

There was a sound like a slowly rising wind as each mountaineer
murmured,

"The sword of the Lord and of Gideon."




10. _THE BULLDOG GROWLS_

[Illustration]


The next morning Kin awoke long before daylight and, unable to sleep,
sat up to look around. Camp fires had burned themselves to a few glowing
coals. From far off in the forest came the mournful plaint of a hunting
owl, and farther back in the mountains a pack of wolves were in full
cry. Kin listened as they swept toward the camp. Then the deer they
pursued struck in another direction, and the wolves' howling faded to a
muted, silvery echo that at last lost itself in the stillness. Kin
shivered, then stiffened suddenly, and silently drew the pistol from
beneath his blanket. Unseen and very stealthy, but certainly present, a
man was walking among his sleeping comrades. Kin levelled the pistol,
and reached forth to shake Ian. But he stayed his hand when he
recognized Tanse Willard's voice:

"Coonie, you aimin' to go?"

"Yeah, yeah," Coonie grumbled sleepily. "Land o' Goshen! Is it three
o'clock a'ready?"

"Pipe down, ya dough-head! Ya'll have the hul army awake!"

"Well I'm awake, ain't I? Why shouldn't they be?"

There were little noises in the darkness as Coonie rose, cast his
blanket aside, picked up his rifle, and stalked off.

"Tanse," Kin said softly.

There was a little motion beside him, and the Indian hunter leaned over
him. A hand touched his blanket.

"Ya'd best sleep a bit yet, Kin."

"What's up?"

"Jest the hunters headin' out. This army ain't got no baggage train, an'
has gotta live off the kentry. I'm sendin' ten men, an' they'll meet us
at tonight's camp with whatever they can bring in. Sevier an'
Campbell's each sendin' ten too. Thutty men should bring in enough meat
to smell up the skillet anyhow."

"Can I go?"

"Ian'd skin me if I took ya. You haul that blanket over yerself an' get
a little more shut-eye."

"I heard wolves."

"So did I. But that hooty owl as sounded off a couple minutes ago was a
Cherokee scout. They're in the woods. Hank Wayne's gone off to see can
he lift the critter's ha'r."

"Will the Cherokees start a ruckus?"

"Not with this crowd. Mebbe a dozen or so'll tail us to see can they
catch anybody laggin' behind. Go back to sleep now, an' save all your
fightin' for Ferguson."

Kin sank back in his blanket, but not to sleep. In some strange way
everything had become as it should be, and the west had not let him
down. Henry Wayne, typical of Kitten Toe's plodding farmers, was at this
very minute out in the dark woods, matching his skill and strength
against the Cherokees. And Kin knew in his heart that any other man
among the nine hundred who slept about him would as readily have
undertaken the task; scratch nine hundred settlers and find nine
hundred fighting men. Kin thought again of the goal toward which these
men and the women they had left behind strove, a goal so important to
them that all their peril and privations were only incidental. Yet all
they seemed to have, or could ever have, were stumpy fields and shabby
cabins.

The slow dawn broke, and the army was awake again. Kin ate parched corn
and maple sugar with Ian, and found the mixture filling. The sugar left
a pleasant, sweetish taste in his mouth, and when Kin saddled the sorrel
mare it was with the feeling that he had eaten enough to last a long
time.

At the head of his company, Sevier led down a rocky gorge along which a
creek hurled itself in a series of riffles and miniature cascades. Far
up the line a brown horse slipped on the wet rocks that bordered the
creek, and the rider stood beside his fallen mount as the column rode
past. The horse got up, but fell again when its right front leg folded
like a broken stick beneath it. Kin rode past, trying not to look. He
heard a shot, and glanced back to see the rider limping toward the foot
soldiers who brought up the rear. The body of the horse with the broken
leg lay half in and half out of the water, and overhead a wheeling
buzzard had already started its slow death watch.

They left the gorge and started up a steep footpath. At Kitten Toe and
in the lower valleys all had been mellow autumn. But winter had chosen
this isolated spot for his first test of strength with the waning fall,
and the leading horses left a wavering line of tracks in three inches of
soft, clinging snow. The path became a muddy slough as man after man
rode his horse up it, and the footmen toiling in the rear branched out
into untrodden snow to avoid its treacherous bottom. Then Ian, riding
just ahead of Kin, broke over the edge of the plateau. Following, Kin
reined in the mare to stop and wonder.

They had mounted to a hundred acres of table-land. Level as a dish of
water, treeless save for a few graceful saplings on one side, the place
seemed more the abode of elves and fairies than the parade ground of an
army. Withered grasses thrust defiant spears through snow that was
crossed and crisscrossed by the tracks of deer and elk. A brown mouse
clung to the top of a swaying weed and nibbled at its seed pods. A flock
of little gray birds flitted cheerfully about, disdainful of the snow
and the army. In the center of the table-land a bubbling spring fed a
stream that wandered to the edge of the table-land, and went tumbling
down the mountain. In the distance rose forest-clad mountains whose blue
peaks were wreathed with fleecy clouds. Never before, Kin thought, had
he seen any place so grand, so wild, and so breath-takingly beautiful.
When the wars were over and men could resume a normal life he would come
here, build a great cabin, and never leave again....

"Ya aimin' to moon all day?" the impatient mountaineer behind him
growled. "If so, leave a body pass."

Kin put the sorrel to a trot and caught up with Ian. Sevier's mounted
men were deploying on the table-land, trotting their horses about and
wheeling to form a long line. A gay mountaineer tossed his hat in the
air, and spurred forward to catch it as it floated toward the ground.
The black-bearded sergeant growled at him, and with impudent slowness he
turned his horse to resume his place in the line. Campbell's and
McDowell's men sat easily on their horses, and Shelby's company mingled
with them. At the head of the line were Shelby and a uniformed man on a
sleek black mare. Ian pointed him out.

"That's Sevier," he said. "Nolachucky Jack, they call him, an' the red
men hae as mortal a hate o' him as o' anythin' that walks among these
hills. E'en Dan'l Boone makes no more fear in the wigwams."

"Why?"

"Because few men hae done so much to keep them in their places," Ian
said simply. "Many the ruckus hatched up in some forest chieftain's
lodge has been stopped e'er fairly started, because they knew they'd hae
Chucky Jack on their red necks. I dinna see Campbell. He has more book
knowledge than all the rest o' this army together, but is nae the man to
put himself forward. A hard-headed Presbyterian an' a fightin' man both,
Campbell. Ye'll travel many the mile wi'out findin' a more devillin'
combination than that."

Kin said, "There was a Valentine Sevier with us at Musgrove's. But I
don't see him here, nor Reed Bowie."

"Val's Chucky Jack's brother," a woodsman beside Kin grunted. "They's
Bob, too. He's another brother, an' whether they're took single or
together they're all hell on wheels. An' Jeeruselam Whiskers! I reckon
they sure aim to roll now! Val an' that Reed Bowie couldn't be bothered
piddlin' around with a army, though. They an' McDowell have already went
over the mountains to see what can they find out. But watch. Looks like
they're gonna shoot."

A lieutenant with a blue cocked hat and a deer-skin suit was walking up
and down the line. He halted, and pointed at a round boulder that
protruded from the spring, a hundred yards away. His words came clearly
to Kin.

"Thar's the mark. All set now. Ready--aim--fire!"

The lieutenant threw himself flat on the ground as two hundred and
fifty men snapped rifles to their shoulders. Kin braced himself. But
because of the rarefied atmosphere the report from the discharged rifles
was only a curious snapping and cracking, as though it had come from
very far away. A great jeer arose from those who had not shot. Instead
of hitting the target, five distinct splashes in the water close to it
proved that five men had missed. Sevier's men retired and Campbell's and
McDowell's companies took their places. The jeer was louder and more
prolonged because a dozen men missed. Shelby's command lined up, fired
on the given order, and two hundred and forty-nine scowling men turned
on Kin. His bullet had kicked up snow twenty feet from the boulder, but
everyone else's had taken a chip from the already battered rock.

"Wha'cha doin' out with a popgun anyhow?" Jock Bindy growled. "We should
all of hit."

"Mebbe ye'd like to shoot a pistol such a distance?" Ian said calmly.

"Fust British soldier I git, I'm gonna bring that kid his gun," Jock
Bindy said disgustedly. "He better git one or git in another comp'ny."

The day was nearly spent, but the army marched four miles down into a
hollow where a spring gushed from a bank and sent its waters racing away
to the river. The hunters who had gone out in the pre-dawn blackness
loafed about a fire. Seven deer, two small bears, and a cow elk hung
from trees about the spring. Coonie rose from the tree against which he
had been reclining, went to one of the deer, and slashed his knife
across its back. He pulled the skin both ways from the slit he had made,
and in less than ninety seconds the deer's hide was off. Others swarmed
about the remaining game, and the meat was ready for the ravenous army
who had marched all day with only parched corn and maple sugar to
sustain them. Kin found himself hungry, but neither weak nor exhausted.
The parched corn sure stuck to a man's ribs.

The army ate, and made camp. Ian came out of the forest with a great
armload of pine twigs, and dropped them on the ground. He spread his
blanket on them, and arranged Kin's on top. A small fire built ten feet
from the side of a huge rock heated the rock's surface and reflected
heat down on the blankets. Kin sat on the bed, entirely comfortable and
at ease. The ground was wet with melted snow, and a raw wind blew up the
valley. But no cabin could offer more comforts than Ian had contrived
from the raw materials at hand in a dense wilderness.

Ian sat beside him a few minutes, then rose and strolled restlessly
through the camp. He stopped to chat with some of the men from Kitten
Toe, and went on to be lost to sight. Kin sat idly watching him, and
would have gone with him had not the blankets and fire been so
comfortable. The hobbled horses, guarded by twenty men who would be
relieved in three hours, shuffled out to forage. Fires leaped high as
the cooking was finished and more wood was added. Men were silhouetted
against them, some few still singing. Kin watched the restless Coonie, a
whirling dervish figure, dancing an intricate jig. But for the most part
the army was tired and willing to rest. Kin settled back on the
blankets, and fell into a half doze from which he was suddenly awakened
by the ringing challenge of a sentry.

"Who is it? Come out of thar with your hands up or I'll shoot!"

And a snappish voice answered, "I'll shoot right back ef'n ya do. I
belong to this here army."

There was further motion in the shadows, and Uncle Dobb came into the
fire light. His coon-skin cap was pulled defiantly over his eyes, and
his bristling whiskers were fiercely out-thrust. Kin stifled a laugh.
The charger bearing Uncle Dobb back into camp was the blunt-horned,
white-faced bull! Uncle Dobb slid from his mount, and the bull stood
respectfully until ordered to go on. Then he ambled down the hollow and
began to pull at some frozen grass.

"Pesky critter!" Uncle Dobb snapped. "But I 'low he knows by now that I
ain't no man to trifle with. I follied him nigh to Kitten Toe, an' when
I caught up with him I says, 'By gummy, I chased ya this far, ye're
gonna haul me back.' So tha's what he done. Looks like I ain't gonna
walk off to git Ferguson's sculp arter all."

The sentry said respectfully, "Looks like you might know a particle
about takin' sculps, Uncle Dobb."

"Oh, them," Uncle Dobb sniffed. "Jest a couple Cherokees as tried to get
smart. Well, I gotta go fix me up with some vittles an' some sleep. I
ain't had none of neither in two nights."

Kin's eyes had followed the sentry's to the pair of limp scalps swinging
at Uncle Dobb's belt. He leaned weakly back against the boulder. Henry
Wayne had come out of the forest without saying anything--and without
any grisly trophies. But two of the Indians trailing the army had tried
to waylay Uncle Dobb, and had caught a Tartar. Kin stared after the old
man, and was unaware of Ian's return until his father spoke.

"A bitter blow has already been struck us."

"What?"

"The two big-mouthed laddies," Ian snarled. "I would that I had followed
my first inclination to cut the throats o' both. While we paraded on
the table-land, they deserted. They can hae nae purpose save that o'
carryin' to Ferguson full tidings o' our gatherin' an' strength. He will
hae ample time to arrange a defense an' select a battle-ground. A pair
o' men, travellin' light, can go at double the speed o' an army."

"How could they?" asked Kin. "Didn't anybody think to stop them?"

"None but myself," Ian said bitterly. "And, fool that I was, I closed my
eyes to their plain actions! But," he added vehemently, "we must go on
an' we must win! The King is the King, and may he prosper. But he canna
stay on the other side of three thousand miles o' ocean an' rule this
great new land fitly. Neither he nor his appointed officers hae any real
conception o' what is here. They see only the gold that a new empire may
bring them. They canna imagine this new land bursting all bonds an'
ties, an' discoverin' in the men who made it the greatest wealth man has
e'er known. Here the common man has been assessed at what he is worth,
an' not at what some accident o' birth seems to make him worth. This is
an army o' common men, goin' forth to fight what they know is tyranny.
'Tis a stupendous uprisin', an' glad I am to be part o' it!"

With this unexpected outburst, Ian stretched out on the improvised bed
and pulled the blanket over him.

Five days after leaving the Sycamore Shoals, and more than a hundred and
twenty-five miles from them, the army marched into a plantation.
Throughout the march, save for the single snow-fall, the weather had
been summery and warm. But even so, the treacherous ravines and steep
mountains had taken their toll. Thirty riderless horses limped along
with the growing crowd of foot soldiers who brought up the rear. A
hundred more were foot-sore and weary, able to bear riders only part of
the time. And each day took its toll in more lame horses and tired men.
But this day's march was ended. Let tomorrow bring what it might, they
could rest now.

Kin slid from the sorrel mare, and for a moment stood with the bridle
reins over his arm looking around at this place where they were to
bivouac for the night. Broad cultivated fields, separated from each
other by split-rail fences, surrounded what seemed to him a palatial
mansion. Negro slaves, toiling in the fields, harvested the last of the
corn. Beyond the house a dozen clean-limbed horses hung their heads over
a paddock and whinnied at the army's mounts. A Negro herdsman tended a
great herd of cattle, and a pack of hounds set up a rhythmic baying. Kin
saw Sevier, Shelby, Campbell, and a dozen lesser officers walk up to
and disappear in the house. Compared to the dingy cabins surrounding
Kitten Toe, this was a place of lavish wealth and abundance.

Kin hobbled the sorrel mare and turned her loose to graze. He was tired,
but after so long a ride it was good to be on foot again and a walk
would not come amiss. Besides, this place looked as though it contained
much of interest. Idly he strolled toward a group of trees. The splash
of falling water was in the distance. A bedraggled black and white dog
came from behind a tree and, with hindquarters pressed close to the
ground, wagged an apprehensive tail. Kin held out his hand, and snapped
his fingers while the dog grovelled closer to the ground.

"Yo' no' count dawg," a voice said. "Yo' flea-chawed meat houn', don' go
botherin' white folks with yo' mannahs."

Kin reached for his pistol, then dropped his hand sheepishly. A huge
Negro, black as a charcoal stump, stood before a big cypress over which
masses of clinging vines had draped themselves. The Negro's lips parted
and his white teeth framed a dazzling smile.

"I's only Yawk," he said apologetically. "An', if they's not To'ies, I
hurts no white folks. Did yo' come with the ahmy, suh?"

"Yes." Kin warmed to the big Negro, the first human being ever to
address him as "sir." "What are you doin' in these woods?"

"I's the mill-keepah," York said proudly. "I grinds all the meal fo' de
big house. Would you ca'h to see my mill, suh?"

"Sure."

York led the way toward the center of the trees, and stopped on the
brink of a deep chasm. A torrent of water spilled over a twenty-foot
ledge, and turned a paddle wheel. An iron shaft passed from the wheel
into a sturdy, three-sided house beside the stream and turned the big
stone mill wheels. The trees all about and the building itself bore the
white, dusty evidence of the miller's trade. York picked up a
two-hundred-pound sack of flour lying at the head of a footpath leading
from the chasm and set it in a drier place. He stood at the head of the
path, gazing proudly down at his mill. Kin looked at him, a splendidly
proportioned man, six feet four of bone and muscle, obviously able to
tear apart most men who thought themselves strong.

"Are you a slave?" Kin blurted.

"Yes suh. Body an' soul I's a slave."

Kin's embarrassment died at the casual answer given his blunt question.

"What's it like?" he asked.

The Negro shrugged. "I don't know. I's got what I need to eat, an' the
mill to wo'k at. I's treated well. I don' have to go fight no To'ies,
an' git shot like so many white gen'man I's seen ca'ied to this house.
But," he finished wistfully, "I guess it would be nice _not_ to be
owned."

"Then why ..."

"Watch the dawg!"

The Negro's obsequious voice had become a whisper. His face was intent,
and he rolled his eyes as though trying to see something that he knew
was present but could not quite make out. The dog sat with head alert
and ears erect. He growled softly in his throat, and looked back at his
master. The Negro made soft little noises and the dog growled again. It
was as though they were talking some strange language perfectly
understandable to each other, but wholly unintelligible to anyone else.
York whipped a long-bladed knife from his trousers, and plunged its
blade into the earth. He seized the handle with his teeth, and lay
quietly for a moment. When he rose, he whisked the knife back to its
hiding place and said,

"They's ridahs on the way, not so many as ah already heah, but a lot.
Did yo-all expec' othahs?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then we best go tell 'em."

York shouldered the bag of flour and slipped among the trees, Kin at his
heels. The dog trotted silently behind. The huge Negro was like a
shadow; not even Tanse Willard could travel more silently or swiftly.
But York had been born in the jungle, and had lived as a jungle
creature. Tanse was the descendant of civilized ancestors who must make
up in intelligence what he lacked in the five senses.

They reached the clearing. In the first glow of twilight the army's camp
fires glowed like bright stars, and smoke from them rose to hang a gauzy
blanket over the plantation. Tanse Willard stepped from the shadows.

"What's all the rushin' for?"

"There's horsemen comin'!" Kin blurted. "York heard 'em!"

Tanse shot a keen glance at the Negro. "Is that right?"

"Yes, suh."

Sevier's black-bearded sergeant appeared, carrying a rifle in the crook
of his arm. He and Tanse conferred, then the sergeant hurried away. Five
minutes later the camp fires were out, the horses had been hurried into
the woods, and riflemen had taken up positions in the shelter of rail
fences, behind hillocks, anywhere that offered concealment. Shelby,
Sevier, and Campbell came from the house with another officer who, Kin
learned, was Colonel McDowell. They crouched behind a hillock with Kin,
Ian, Coonie, and a dozen other soldiers.

Twenty minutes later a dozen horsemen appeared at the edge of the meadow
and rode openly toward the house. They were very close to it when a
larger body of about three hundred riders and infantrymen broke from
cover. But the night was dropping its black shades fast, and it was
difficult to see anything clearly. The advance horsemen were only a
dozen yards away when Shelby said heartily,

"Ben Cleveland!"

"Howdy, Isaac." A man mounted on a veritable mountain of a horse rode
forward and dismounted. Once on the ground he became a rider worthy of
the horse. Six feet three, he must have weighed nearly three hundred
pounds. Yet he was neither clumsy nor disproportioned. He turned to call
at the horsemen,

"Gently there. Remember the lad's hurt."

"Did ya have trouble?" Shelby inquired.

"That we did!" Colonel Ben Cleveland said bitterly. "I thought this was
to be a secret march, but the damned Tory dogs have winded us! A party
of the rogues ambushed us while we were crossin' the Catawba this
mornin', an' my brother, Larkin, has a ball through the thigh."

"Did they escape?" Colonel Shelby asked quickly.

"They ran like chickens," Ben Cleveland said scornfully. "Don't they
always when faced with anything like equal numbers? But I'll catch the
devils, an' when I do I'll decorate the nearest trees with 'em! Look at
this."

He gave a sheet of paper to Shelby, who read it and passed it on to
Sevier. Sevier gave it to Campbell, and that hard-headed fighting man
laughed.

"It's not funny!" The venom in Ben Cleveland's words expressed his
whole-hearted hate of anything British or Tory. "That craven hound of a
Ferguson had the audacity to paste like notices on half the trees 'twixt
here an' Ninety-Six! He's also given one to every turn-coat he's met
that looks at all able to hold a gun."

"Don't underestimate him, Ben," Shelby said gravely. "He'll give us a
tussle."

"Bah! All I want is to meet him an' his boasted army of Rangers!" He
summoned the black-bearded sergeant. "Here, pass this amongst all the
men, an' let 'em see for themselves what sort of liar they must deal
with."

That night, by the light of a flickering camp fire, Kin and Ian read the
paper that had been brought by Ben Cleveland and his riflemen:

                                           _Harbie's Ford, Rapid River_
                                                      _October 1, 1780_

     _Gentlemen:_

     _Unless you wish to be eat up by an inundation of barbarians, who
     have begun by murdering an unarmed son before the aged father, and
     afterwards lopped off his arms, and who by their shocking cruelties
     and irregularities give the best proof of their cowardice and want
     of discipline: I say, if you wish to be pinioned, robbed, and
     murdered, and see your wives and daughters abused by the dregs of
     mankind--in short if you wish or deserve to live, and bear the name
     of men, grasp your arms in a moment and run to camp._

     _The Back Water men have crossed the mountains, McDowell, Sevier,
     Shelby, and Cleveland are at their head, so that you may know what
     you have to depend upon. If you choose to be degraded forever and
     ever by a pack of mongrels, say so at once, and let your women turn
     their backs on you, and look out for real men to protect them._

                                   _Pat. Ferguson, Major 71st Regiment_

Ian passed it on to the next man, and sat staring into the fire. His
face was hard and set.

"What's it mean?" Kin asked.

"It means," Ian said slowly, "that Bulldog Ferguson at last has learned
to respect the men ye see about ye. He is tastin' uneasiness. It means
that what ye hae seen thus far will be as child's play compared to what
ye will very shortly see."




11. _IN PURSUIT_

[Illustration]


Two days later, forty miles from the plantation, the army camped in a
mountain gap. But it was not the usual careless camp. Most of the men
who had formed new friends on the march, slept, eaten, and quarrelled
with them, went back to their own companies and their own officers. Half
at a time, the horses were unsaddled, rubbed down, and saddled again.
Every half hour and, as the night closed in, every ten minutes, scouts
rode out. Kin knew that for five miles in every direction pickets were
keeping their dangerous vigil, ready to race back into camp with the
warning if an enemy force was sighted. Kin loosened the pistol in his
belt, and kept very close to Ian.

The scouts had come into last night's camp with the news that Ferguson's
army lay at Gilbert Town. And Gilbert Town was only eighteen miles away.

Campbell, elected commander-in-chief at an officer's meeting, had set up
his headquarters on a fallen log. Shelby, Sevier, Cleveland, and
Winston, second in command of Cleveland's company, conferred with him
there. Ian finished rubbing down the gray gelding, and strapped the
saddle back on him. When Ian resumed his place in the riflemen's line,
Kin took the saddle from the mare.

He rubbed her back with a rough cloth, brushed the dirt and grime from
her withers, and picked out the cockle-burrs that had matted in her
tail. One by one he lifted her four feet to search for pebbles or grit
that might have become lodged in her hoofs. But his hand trembled, and
the mare swung her head to look curiously at him.

"Ye needna be nervous," Ian advised. "We will hae ample warnin' o' an
enemy approach."

"Do you--do you think the battle will come tonight?"

"It can come at any moment. Ferguson knows we are on his track, an' 'tis
nae beyond the realm o' possibility that his scouts hae looked us o'er.
If he thinks he has us out-classed, he will be certain to march."

"A sergeant told me we had five thousand men here!" Kin blurted. "He
said he heard Sevier tell a lieutenant."

Ian chuckled. "An' there is small doubt that Sevier told the lieutenant
just that. 'Tis the news any leader would like to hae leak. We canna
convince ourselves that we are so strong. But it may be that we can
convince Ferguson."

"Oh. I see."

"Aye. Such news serves the same purpose as an Indian yell or a
catamount's scream, an' 'tis the oldest of army stratagems. But look! A
courier has returned, an' nae doubt he brings more news."

A horseman, mounted on a lean, long-legged gray-hound of a horse, had
come into camp. He swung from the saddle, rein-haltered the horse, and
spoke to a group of soldiers. They laughed, and the lanky courier strode
through the camp toward the group of officers.

"That's Valentine Sevier!" Kin cried.

Valentine Sevier sat down on the log, and the commanders of the various
companies gathered about him. A little fire sent up flickering tongues
of flame, and the reflection from them wreathed Shelby's and Sevier's
faces in a strange red glow. Shelby motioned into the darkness, and a
half dozen men sauntered up to the log. Kin recognized Henry Wayne, and
guessed that the remainder were likewise lieutenants or sergeants. He
looked about for Tanse Willard, and remembered that Tanse had gone out
with the scouts.

The lesser officers conferred briefly, and spread out among the men. The
mountaineers they spoke to began to gather about the log, forming a
circle with their commanders in the center. Henry Wayne passed Ian and
Kin.

"Go on down," he said. "Everybody's gonna hear this."

They picketed their horses, and joined the crowd surging toward the log.
Shelby stood up on it, looked at the packed ring of soldiers, and waited
a few minutes for stragglers to come in. Kin studied his face, and that
of the other officers', and his own waning confidence returned. None of
them seemed worried or even uneasy.

"Mebbe all of ya'd like to know that Ferguson's on the run," said
Shelby. "He was at Gilbert Town. But Val, here, just brought word that
he left a couple of nights ago. Mebbe he's scared of the army, an'
mebbe he's just lit out on account Uncle Dobb thar's been whettin' his
scalpin' knife on that bull's hide. How about it, Uncle Dobb?"

"By cracky, it's sharp enough!" Uncle Dobb cackled. "An' that bull's as
good a horse as they is in this man's army!"

Shelby waited for the laughter to subside, and continued,

"We ain't been able to find out just how many men Ferguson's got with
him. We do know he's got more'n we have, an' they're pretty near the
pick of his troops. They know how to fight, an' they got everything to
fight with. Now there ain't a man here as was forced or made to come.
An' there ain't one asked to go on if he don't feel like it. Some of us
are gonna get kil't. Anybody that wants to fall out now can do it."

He waited, but not a man moved. Shelby grinned.

"I reckon nobody got trampled in the rush to git back over the
mountains. An', seein' as I've given ya the worst of it, here's the
best. Ferguson may have the most guns, but we got the _best_ ones. An',"
his voice suddenly became very sober and serious, "I'm tellin' every man
of you that the fight I see shapin' up is our kind of fight, a
riflemen's fight, an' that kind we're sure to win.

"I don't know where Ferguson's gone. He may be headin' for the fort at
Ninety-Six, he may be goin' to join Cornwallis, he may be makin' some
kind of play to git us in a trap. But we'll find out where he is an'
catch him. When we do, don't wait for orders. Every man will be his own
officer. Give 'em Indian play; they hate that wuss'n poison. Now I guess
Colonel Campbell'd like to say somethin'."

Campbell mounted the log, and stood outlined in the fire light. A
commanding figure, one who had dedicated his life to truth, justice, and
the ruthless suppression of his own and his country's enemies, the near
fanaticism that gnawed at him was plain in his words.

"Concerning our hated enemy, I can add nothing to what Colonel Shelby
has already told you. As far as the rest goes, I can only say that, even
though it costs your life, you must strike and fight as hard as you can.
Think not of yourself, but of your country and those who would devastate
it. Have implicit confidence in your officers. I commend you all to God,
and be ready to march in three hours."

"Why'd they put him in command?" Kin whispered.

"He's the man for it," Ian whispered back. "He knows as much about war
as any o' them, an' 'tis said that he carries maps in his head. But, as
I told ye before, he is nae the man ye'd cotton to on short
acquaintance."

They returned to their horses and Kin lay back against a tree, holding
his blanket up to shield himself from a driving rain that had sprung up.
He thrashed about, trying to find a comfortable position, and rose once
to look at Ian. His father lay wrapped in his own blanket, fast asleep
for the few hours that would elapse before the army must march again.
Kin lay down and tried to sleep, but could not. When, after what seemed
endless hours, Henry Wayne came past rousing the mountaineers, he sprang
up to fold his blanket. Ian, who seemed able to come from deep slumber
into full wakefulness, shook his head.

"Leave it. We're goin' light as we can."

The horses had had no chance to forage, and were restive. Kin went to
the picket line, and quieted the nervous sorrel as he felt about in the
darkness to adjust her saddle and bridle. The cold rain had become a
misty drizzle that soaked clothing and sent clammy little rivulets down
neck and armpits. Ian removed his buckskin shirt and wrapped it about
the lock of his rifle. Half naked, he put one foot in the stirrup and
mounted the gelding. Seemingly oblivious to the driving rain, he sat
awaiting the order to march.

"This is where ye hae an advantage," he called to Kin. "Ye can stick the
pistol inside yer shirt, an' still use it to keep yer back dry."

Out in the darkness a man swore at a squealing, plunging horse. A laugh
rose, and those men nearest the unruly horse's striking hoofs shouted
profane advice. Then came the protesting mutter of Uncle Dobb's bull,
who had no disposition to start out at this time of night, and the sharp
whack of Uncle Dobb's old gun across his shoulders. Then, at last, the
army was on the move.

They rode down the course of a small creek, fording it from time to time
as those who led the column now judged the best footing to be on one
side or the other. Kin hunched over the saddle, trying to keep the
pistol dry and take the pelting rain on his back. But no matter which
way he turned, the rain drove from that direction. Finally he slipped
the pistol down the back of his shirt and rode erect. Once or twice he
slapped the powder horns at his belt. But they were tightly corked, and
the polished horn admitted no rain.

A cold dawn, with a mist-ridden sky still spouting volleys of sleet-like
rain, crept out of the sky as though it was ashamed to bring a day such
as this one. Too miserable and tired to swing and look at the men behind
him, Kin let his glance rove over those ahead. Every horseman had taken
off his shirt or jacket and wrapped it around the lock of his rifle. Far
down a valley Shelby talked with a group of scouts. Kin recognized Tanse
Willard, and wondered dully if Tanse ever slept or was ever even tired.
The weary, hungry sorrel plodded down into the valley and stood with
head drooping. Kin sat astride her, too exhausted to know or care what
happened about him. Then Ian, from whom he had become separated during
the night, left another group of horsemen and rode up.

"Weariness is part o' war," he said grimly.

"Aye. I know."

"We're goin' to stay here awhile. The horses must forage an' the men
must rest. Dismount, an' go join yon group; they're goin' to hae a fire.
I'll care for yer beastie."

Kin said stubbornly, "I'll care for my own horse."

He slid to the ground, and clutched a stirrup to steady himself. For a
moment he clung tightly to it, then took the saddle and bridle off,
hobbled the mare, and let her go to join the rest of the free horses.
The herd shuffled down to a creek, and began to pull eagerly at the
grass growing along its edge.

Kin strode wearily toward the group to which Ian had directed him.
Valentine Sevier sat on the ground, shaving splinters from a pine stick
in his left hand. He piled them on a strip of bark, covered them with
his body, and struck a spark from flint and steel. A glowing black spot
appeared in the center of the shavings, and a little wisp of smoke
curled up. He added more splinters, and pieces of wood as a yellow
flame licked up through the tinder. Kin leaned against a boulder and
said,

"Howdy, Valentine Sevier."

The lean scout looked around. "Howdy, boy."

"I was at Musgrove's. Don't you remember me?"

"Can't say I do. But I'm still glad to see ya. How goes it?"

"All right."

"All right, nothin'," Jock Bindy growled. "Where's this Ferguson we're
s'posed to ketch?"

"Ferguson," Valentine Sevier drawled, "is a hard man to catch."

"Yeh," another mountaineer grumbled. "I rid clean f'm the Nolachucky.
An' all I seen so far is rain. I gotta be gettin' back thar soon. I got
a wife an' six kids, an' them Cherokees ain't so obligin' as to wait
'til I get home."

"I know it's been tough," Valentine Sevier said quietly. "But ye'll
clean up this mess an' be headin' back soon."

"That's easy to say," Jock Bindy growled.

Kin sat up as a few horsemen and a dozen weary foot soldiers straggled
down the trail. He felt a little pride in his own achievement of having
kept up with the army; those who were just arriving hadn't been able
to.

"Some's just gettin' here," Kin said to Valentine Sevier.

The scout nodded. "The trail's littered with 'em. Some ain't but halfway
f'm last night's camp. Ye'd best git some sleep, boy."

Kin sank back on the ground, and let the fire's warmth creep over him.
Dimly he saw Ian come up and choose a bed beside him, and in the last
second before he closed his eyes he saw more weary stragglers dragging
themselves down the trail.

But it seemed that he was no sooner asleep than he was being shaken to
wakefulness again. Kin sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He
saw Ian, as usual, tending to his rifle first, and was tempted to lie
down again. Then he saw a new addition to the group around the fire, an
old man whose silvery hair wreathed his head like a halo, and whose
gentle eyes seemed to set him apart from all who would engage in the
sinful business of war. Kin bounded erect.

"Reed Bowie!"

"Hello, Kinross," the old man said.

"Where'd you come from?"

"Ferguson."

Jock Bindy snorted skeptically.

"Yes. I spent the last five days with him. He seemed to think me a Tory,
and I did not bother to set him right."

"Was ya really with Ferguson?" Jock Bindy demanded. "Whar's he at?"

"I left him at Tate's Meadows. I think he's going to try and join
Cornwallis. But Ferguson is a man hungry for military glory, and he
won't run far if he thinks he can fight. Since he has a strong force
with him, the chances are that he will fight."

"Whoops!" Jock Bindy sprang up and started running towards the horses.
Reed Bowie gazed reproachfully after him. "He that is hasty of spirit
exalteth folly," he murmured. "Do you remember what I told you about
hurrying, Kinross?"

"Aye. Where do we go from here?"

"To the Cowpens. Colonel James Williams, Hambright, Lacey, Hill, and
Chronicle are to meet us there with four or five hundred men. It is also
the most direct route to Ferguson's line of retreat. Well, perhaps we
should start."

Stragglers were still coming down the trail, and all about the
encampment lay men who only stared soddenly at those preparing to resume
the march. A dozen horses lay prone on the ground, and Kin watched an
anxious trooper trying to prod one of them to its feet. A great herd of
lame and disabled horses limped about or lay down in sheltered places.
Uncle Dobb's bull looked sullenly up from the grassy bank where he had
made his bed, and heaved himself humpily to his feet when Uncle Dobb
flourished the old smooth-bore. Kin found himself next to Colonel Ben
Cleveland in the horse herd. Agile as a cat for all his great weight,
Colonel Cleveland saddled and mounted his huge horse.

"Steady now, Roebuck," he murmured. He swung toward Kin. "Figure you'll
go out, son?"

"Aye," Kin said. "Aren't we all going?"

Ben Cleveland shook his head. "Some of the horses can't carry riders,
and some of the men can't ride. They'll come on when they can. You'd
best stay here, where there's enough men to put up a fight, unless
you're sure you can keep up. Stragglers will be left, an' this is Tory
country. Hangin's the least to be expected if you're caught."

Cleveland cantered off to join his own men and Kin took his accustomed
place with his father and the men from Kitten Toe. He looked uneasily at
those remaining behind. To fight Ferguson on anything like equal terms
they should have every man. Yet, nearly half the thirteen hundred who
had come to this camp were either unable to go on or unable to go on
fast enough. Kin set his eyes to the front and did not look back.

Late that evening they rode down into the Cowpens. Fires gleamed like a
handful of stars scattered on the ground, and lit up the big cow pens
from which the place took its name. The cattle in them raised their
heads to stare at the new arrivals, and fell to grazing again. A party
of horsemen came from the bivouac, and a man with a rich German accent
called,

"Are you the poys from over the mountains? I'm Hambright."

"We're the ones," Campbell called. "What news of Ferguson?"

"He iss down near Kings Mount'n. We haff sent Enoch Gilmer off to keep
track of him if he should leaff. He's a smart feller, Gilmer iss. We're
waitin' for him to come pack."

"What plans do you have?" Shelby called impatiently.

"We wass waitin' to plan mit you," Hambright answered. "But we wass
expectin' to march tonight. You fellers better get some rest pefore we
goess again. That Tory, Saunders, who owns all them cowss down there, he
didn't know nothin' apout Ferguson. So we didn't hurt him. But we made
some of his cowss into beef an' there's lotss to eat. We harvested his
corn for him too, apout fifty acres in ten minutess. You can feed your
horses good."

Kin dismounted, rubbed the sorrel mare down, and resaddled her. He left
the bridle hanging over the saddle horn, and picketed the mare to the
top rail of one of the cow pens. With plenty of good Tory corn to eat,
no horse would need to forage. Williams' men, who had rested well and
who had not marched nearly the distance covered by those from the
headwaters of the Nolachucky and the Watauga, gathered around. But there
was no horse-play and little animosity. The small force already at the
Cowpens knew that they alone could not possibly cope with Ferguson, and
they welcomed the new arrivals.

Kin ate, and leaned back against the fence to sleep. War, he decided,
was not all bad and had its compensations. After last night's camp, and
the wearying ride in the rain, a man really learned to appreciate a camp
such as this. It was dry, the rain had stopped, the fire was warm, and
he had eaten his fill of Tory beef.

He came suddenly awake in the darkness. Through the mists that blanketed
the Cowpens a three-quarters moon showed glimpses of itself as it began
the evening rise. It was still early evening. At the most he had slept
four hours. But he had slept so well that he felt refreshed, and
confidently able to meet whatever should be encountered. Fires leaped
high in the darkness, and shadowy figures moved about them. Tanse
Willard and Henry Wayne were walking among the men from Kitten Toe,
reaching down to shake sleepers into wakefulness.

Jock Bindy sprang up eagerly. "We close to Ferguson?"

"You ain't goin', Jock," Tanse said curtly.

"The hell I ain't!"

"Your horse walked lame the last three miles in here. He can't keep up.
We're cuttin' down to those with good horses. If we don't catch Ferguson
on this march, we may not catch him a'tall."

"I'll take young McKenzie's horse. He ain't got no rifle anyway."

"You will not take my horse!" Kin bristled fiercely. "I'm takin' him
myself!"

"Then, by gummy, I'll walk!"

As Tanse moved on, Kin called after him, "Is there more news of
Ferguson?"

"He's camped close to Kings Mountain."

Kin gripped his pistol, and began looking for his horse in the
half-moonlight. All about him dim figures were doing the same. Uncle
Dobb had mounted the bull, and sat kicking impatient heels against the
ribs of that long-suffering beast as he waited for the remainder of the
army to prepare. Riding the swift black mare that he had captured from
Elmo Bladen's Tory raiders, Reed Bowie approached to take his place in
front of Kin.

"Guess I belong with Shelby's company," he said amiably. "Where did you
get that horse, Kinross? Been doing a little Tory raiding without me?"

The tension that had gripped Kin snapped like a breaking string. There
was something calming about this gentle old man who talked like a
preacher and fought like a devil.

"It's one of three horses my father took from the British," Kin said
proudly.

"Um-um. I'd heard he had changed his convictions. Well, here we go."

The long column began to move out into the darkness, and Kin looked at
those who were to be left behind at this camp. About seven hundred
mountaineers had finally ridden into the Cowpens, and Williams had
brought four hundred and fifty men. But at least two hundred and fifty
from both armies were unable to go on from here. Only a few more than
nine hundred men were going out for the final clash with Ferguson's
Rangers. But there was some comfort in the thought that they were all
picked men who had already proven themselves able to face hardships and
toil. That they were all expert riflemen was beyond any question.

The horses' feet made little sucking noises in the muddy trail up which
they were walking, and a cold rain began to fall, pelting the riders and
swirling in sheets about the plodding horses. As before, it always
seemed to be driving from the front, and Kin again thrust his pistol
down the back of his shirt. He saw Reed Bowie and Ian strip off their
shirts and wrap them about the locks of their guns. From somewhere up
ahead Coonie's disgusted voice floated back.

"I'm gonna grow me a set of duck feathers next time I ride with Shelby.
I dunno but what I'd ruther be kil't, if that'd git a body out of this."

Kin was surprised when dawn came. The night had been so long and so
miserable that it seemed to have no end. He looked again to make sure
that it was daylight breaking through the trees. Those fortunate few who
had coats had wrapped them about the locks of their guns and still wore
their shirts. But for the most part the men were shirtless, their
swaying backs gleaming wet with the rain.

"There goes Gilmer to see if the ford's clear," a voice said. "If it
ain't somebody's goin' to git hurt."

Up ahead a horseman broke out of line and galloped down the trail. Mud
and water splashed from beneath his horse's hoofs as he rode past the
leaders. Fifteen minutes later, from far in advance of the army, a man
began to sing at the top of his voice,

    "Danny Darnley
    Went to the fair.
    He wanted to see
    What he could see there."

"That's Gilmer," Reed Bowie announced. "And that's his signal. We won't
fight any Tories at this ford."

The column's pace quickened. Then, fifteen minutes later, it came to a
complete halt. Through the trees Kin heard the rushing of water and the
snarling of rapids. Slowly the army moved forward again, and Kin came to
the edge of the river. Swollen by the rains, it hurled itself savagely
down its bed. Hungry little ripples came far up on the shore, and lapped
at the willows there. Riders formed a long line across the savage
current and, as Kin watched, a horse slipped and went down. The horse
was whirled end for end, and neighed shrilly as he was drawn into
swifter water. The rider shouted, dropped his rifle, and struck out for
shore. A thrown halter settled near him. He grasped it in both hands,
and was whipped in a long arc downstream. The men on the end of the rope
pulled him slowly in to shore. In the center of the river Uncle Dobb had
brought both feet up on the swimming bull's back, and was squatting
there like a huge, ungainly bird as the bull struggled through the
current.

The sorrel mare walked hesitantly down to the ford and started across.
Water rushed against her on the upstream side, and curled back in frothy
little waves. But Ian's judgment had been sound. She half-walked,
half-swam, to the opposite bank and climbed out of the water.

The overcast sky poured down fresh bursts of rain, and shivering riders
leaned forward in their saddles as their horses plodded on. The horse in
front of Reed Bowie's staggered and went down. Its rider slipped from
the saddle, walked to a rock, and sat wearily down on it, swearing in a
low, steady voice. Tanse Willard dismounted and shook the man's
shoulders. The rider blinked, and stood out of the path while the rest
of the horsemen filed by. Then he went to the rear and marched slowly
along, leaning on his rifle as though it were a cane.

Sevier rode back along the line, and Reed Bowie turned his black mare to
ride with him. Presently the old man came back to resume his place. He
was looking very thoughtful.

"What happened?" Kin inquired.

"Sevier, Campbell, Williams, an' Cleveland favor stopping to rest," the
old man said calmly. "But Shelby says he won't stop before dark if he
has to follow Ferguson right into Cornwallis' camp. So I guess we go
on."

Kin scraped the bottom of his rucksack for the handful of corn meal that
remained there. He ate it, licking the last few grains from the palm of
his hand. There seemed to be nothing to say.

Three hours later Gilmer, the scout, rode back. Shelby, whose stallion
seemed as tireless as its rider, trotted out to meet him. They reined
their horses together, and talked briefly. Then Shelby threw his hat in
the air and his long, Indian yell came rolling back, as he whirled the
stallion and broke into a gallop. The men at the front of the column
rode erect once more, and even the horses pranced a little. Like
wildfire the news spread down the line, banishing weariness, cold, and
hunger. This was what they had come so far and risked so much to hear.

Coonie turned a beaming face on Reed Bowie. "Did ya hear? Ferguson's on
top of that mounting, right over thar! We're gonna have a fight at
last!"

Kin looked at a long, low mountain, scarcely two miles away, and turned
to blurt at Ian, "There's Ferguson!" And even Ian seemed excited as he
passed the news on to the one behind him. As though it was a good omen,
the rain stopped. Shelby came riding back to his own command, and talked
freely with those about him. Again the news went down the line.

"We got him trapped! We're gonna surround him. Sevier an' Campbell's
goin' around to t'other side of the mounting. Thar they go!"

Campbell's and Sevier's men urged their jaded horses to a gallop, and
drew away from the rest. A rider dashed up, leading a horse on which sat
a thoroughly frightened fourteen-year-old boy.

"He's one o' Ferguson's men!" he yelled. "I ketched him gettin' away!"

Shelby rode forward. Too excited to stay behind, Kin pushed up with him.
Colonel Hambright was interviewing the captive.

"Wass you mit Ferguson?"

"Yes."

"What wass you doing now?"

"Goin' to Charlotte with a dispatch for Cornwallis. Major Ferguson wants
help."

"Oh, he doess, doess he? How many mens hass he got mit him?"

"I don't know. More than a thousand."

"What doess Ferguson look like?"

"He's the best-dressed officer there. But he's got sort of a checked
shirt on over his uniform."

Hambright said kindly, "We ain't goin' to hurt you, poy." Then he turned
on the soldiers gathered about. "Well, poys, you heard. When you see dot
man mit a pig shirt on over his clothes you know who he iss, and mark
him mit your rifles."

Shelby's company rode up a rocky little ridge. Kin looked at the top of
Kings Mountain, and saw the tents of Ferguson's army, with baggage
wagons lined before them. The sun sent its rays glancing off the fixed
bayonets of the soldiers who stood ready to repel the mountaineers.

"Dismount an' tie your horses," said Shelby. "Leave all extra baggage
with 'em. Fresh prime your rifles."

He paused and looked steadily at his gaunt, bedraggled troops.

"He's up there. What say we go get him!"




12. _THE BATTLE_

[Illustration]


Kin swung to look behind him. Still a hundred and fifty yards away,
Uncle Dobb was coming on his bull, bouncing up and down as his
outlandish charger galloped stiff-leggedly toward the battle line. The
bull's tail was straight up, his head close to the ground. He stopped
suddenly and began to buck, whirling his hindquarters and rearing to
bring his front legs stiffly down on the ground. Uncle Dobb slid from
his back and ran toward the others. The bull lowered his head, chased
him a few yards, and returned to a patch of green grass near a stagnant
pond. The few other men who had witnessed Uncle Dobb's unceremonious
entry into the fight cheered.

Ian said drily, "E'en the bull kens that a man may be ill-spared now.
Our path seems to lie this way."

Kin clutched the pistol in his right hand, and hoped that no one but
himself was aware of the weak feeling that insisted on gripping the pit
of his stomach. It was not as though this was his first battle. He had
fought before, and should not be afraid. But, he admitted to himself, he
was afraid.

Shelby's company, those who had ridden in the rear taking the extreme
right, were fanning out across the side of the mountain. At length Ian,
Kin, Tanse Willard, Coonie, and Reed Bowie, were walking alone. They
came to a thick patch of laurel, and Ian said,

"Stay right here. Do as ye see the rest do. I'll be next to ye."

Kin stared up the mountain, but could see nothing. He glanced to the
left, where the grinning Coonie stood licking his lips and looking up
the mountain toward Ferguson's camp. Coonie had taken off his coon-skin
cap and tied a gray kerchief about his head. But, for all his
recklessness, he was cautious enough to have taken shelter behind a huge
buttonwood tree. A dozen feet beyond Coonie, the fierce Uncle Dobb
gripped his smooth-bore with both hands. Beyond Uncle Dobb, Kin was
surprised to see Tom Yeobright crouched behind a fallen tree. One of the
foot soldiers, Tom was not supposed to be here. The next few men were so
well hidden that he could not identify them, and Kin looked toward his
right.

His rifle dangling in the crook of his arm, Ian stood in the shelter of
a few straggling berry bushes. He winked at Kin, and jerked his thumb
straight up. Kin forced his dry lips to shape a grin, and looked beyond
Ian to see Reed Bowie sitting on a stump. The old man had thrown his hat
away, and his silvery hair tumbled about his shoulders. But he was
certainly abiding by his own creed of avoiding useless haste. Reed Bowie
might have been a squirrel hunter, waiting for his quarry to appear.
Tanse Willard occupied Shelby's extreme right, and beyond Tanse Kin saw
more men forming a line. They were the Holston men, under Campbell.

The rising plaint of a whistle shattered the mountain's unnatural
stillness. Silvery clear and sweet, fitted to the sylvan background, the
music of the whistle seemed almost a bird call. But it was followed by
the rattle of drums. Kin's knees shook as he peered through the laurel.
The whistle and the drums were in Ferguson's camp, calling for some new
maneuver or new arrangement of troops. Kin strained to see through the
trees, then turned at a sharp hiss to his right. Coonie was pointing up
the mountain, evidently passing on some silent signal that had come to
him. Uncle Dobb and Tom Yeobright were no longer in sight. Kin looked
bewilderedly at Ian, whose lips formed the words,

"Come on."

Kin hesitated, then ran recklessly to the shelter of the nearest tree.
He crouched behind it, and looked about in sudden panic. No one else was
in sight; he must have misunderstood the orders and was stalking
Ferguson alone! He turned to look back down the hill, and his eyes
measured the incredible distance of nine feet back to the spot he had
left. But, in turning, he caught a glimpse of Coonie. Twenty feet
farther up, the mountaineer bent forward and advanced steadily. Suddenly
he went out of sight in a bunch of grass scarcely big enough to shelter
a rabbit. But Kin caught occasional glimpses of other climbing men. The
final advance on Ferguson had started.

A buck deer with wide-branching antlers sprang from a covert and bounded
up the mountain. He swerved suddenly, and quartered along the face of
the slope. Tree limbs moved, bits of shale rattled, and the deer was
out of sight. Kin made a swift run to a birch tree, twenty feet farther
up, and threw himself down beside it.

Suddenly two shots, one from either side, snapped like whip lashes. Just
above the place where the buck had swerved, brush moved. A buckskin-clad
Tory scout stood up, took two or three staggering steps down the
mountain, then went suddenly limp as his knees buckled beneath him. He
fell forward, and his hat tumbled from his head as he slid a little way
down the mountain. But he still clung to his rifle.

Kin's body seemed suddenly as limp as the dead Tory scout's. He peered
to the right and the left, trying to find the source of the two shots,
and saw nothing. Again he looked at the fallen scout, and knew exactly
how well the hard-riding, soft-stalking mountaineers were fitted to do
this job that they had sworn to finish. The scout had been almost
invisible there in his ambush. But Coonie and the one other, probably
Ian or Reed Bowie, had seen him.

Then all Kin's sane thought was flooded away by the wild Indian yell
that seemed to spring to every man's tongue at the same second. Shrill,
horrifying, terrible, the yell created its own atmosphere, one proper to
the circumstances that called it forth. Buoyed by it, Kin's weakness
became strength, his outlook one keyed to battle.

There was a sudden great thrashing of brush and rattling of rocks to the
right. Kin looked in that direction, and saw a company of horsemen
forcing their mounts at full gallop up the mountain. The Indian yell
burst from every throat, as they disappeared from sight. There were
scattered volleys from farther up the mountain, and the horsemen rode
back. Two riderless horses plunged with flapping stirrups and trailing
bridle reins. One turned, and dashed back up the mountain.

The mountaineers had emerged from cover and were running now. Kin ran
with them, holding the pistol ready and eager to shoot at whatever might
confront him so long as it wore the dress of an enemy. He felt suddenly
strong, eager to be in the very forefront of the runners.

Farther up the mountain rifles began to snap. They made a curious,
staccato noise, as though a number of men on the edge of the mountain
had gathered to shoot at a mark. But six inches from Kin's right cheek a
twig broke suddenly, and its own weight carried it to the ground. Kin
stopped, and clapped a hand to his face. He realized with sudden
surprise that the bullet had been meant for him. Then the wild Indian
yell shrieked through the trees again. Kin found himself echoing it
while he banished from his mind everything save the tremendous
importance of reaching the top of the mountain.

In the bare second he had halted, the others had gained a twenty-foot
lead on him. Kin saw Coonie go down, jerking forward and pawing the air
with his hands as though he would find something solid upon which he
might support himself. Coonie sprawled full length, with the toe of his
left moccasin caught behind a boulder. He had tripped, Kin thought
absently, and hurt himself in the fall.

On top of the mountain, and to the right, a sudden tremendous volley
sounded. Campbell's men had reached the summit, and were shooting. A
shout of triumph arose, recognizable as British because the mountaineers
gave only the Indian yell. Then the yell sounded from farther down the
mountain. Campbell seemed to be retreating.

Just in time to keep himself from running out on the mountain's treeless
summit, Kin dropped behind the shaggy trunk of a Spanish oak and peered
around it.

Off to the right two hundred British soldiers, keeping perfect step
behind the captain who led them, were advancing to fill the gaps left by
the men whose charge had forced Campbell down the mountain. All about
the rim of the mountain other scarlet-clad soldiers, stiff-necked and
apparently interested only in the orders to come from their superiors,
awaited the Rebel charge. Immediately before Shelby's column the
British, who had been shooting from the rim of the mountain, were
retreating to the baggage wagons and reforming their lines. Bayonets
gleamed on the ends of their rifles, and the mounted officer who led
them had his back contemptuously turned on the Rebels.

Kin stared. The mounted officer was Lieutenant Allaire! He held a sword
in his left hand. But the rifle, resting across the saddle in front of
him, must be the one he had taken from Kin! It was the gun Ian had made
him, his most precious possession, part of himself and his great dreams.

Ten feet to the right Uncle Dobb had stretched his scrawny length behind
a boulder. He levelled his old smooth-bore over it, and pressed the
trigger. The gun belched the load of lead, pebbles, and scrap metal that
Uncle Dobb had crammed down it. The terrific recoil spun Uncle Dobb
halfway around, and a thick cloud of black smoke blew away from the
boulder. But three British soldiers fell out of line, and a split second
later the rest of the mountaineers shot.

Kin saw a dozen British soldiers drop like stunned oxen. Another looked
curiously down at his arm, and tried to shake it. Wounded men sat on the
ground and, as Kin watched, one of them wilted slowly forward, as though
he was very tired. But the mounted Lieutenant Allaire did not even turn
around. He lifted the sword, and whipped it toward the ground. Through
the firing, Kin heard his sharp order,

"Forward!"

Lieutenant Allaire wheeled his horse and at full gallop started toward
the Rebels on the rim of the mountain. Their bayonets fixed, the
infantrymen trotted after him. Kin thrust his pistol around the tree,
took a wild shot at the officer, and stood straight up. Uncle Dobb was
frantically pouring another charge of powder down the muzzle of his
smooth-bore. He dropped a handful of slugs on top of it, and fussed with
the priming mechanism.

The advancing British were breaking ranks to spread out toward the
mountaineers. A small man, who had joined Shelby at the plantation, ran
into the field, levelled his rifle at the soldiers, and shot. With
robot-like precision a huge British dragoon bore down on him. The
scarlet-clad trooper drew his rifle back, and lunged with the bayonet.
Kin saw it enter the little man's stomach, and come out his back. The
British soldier put one foot on his fallen enemy, jerked the bayonet
out, and ran on again. Suddenly Ian was beside Kin.

"Come on, ye fool!" he panted.

Kin came suddenly out of the half daze that had enveloped him. Scarcely
twenty feet away a soldier with levelled bayonet was running straight at
him. But Uncle Dobb had managed to prime his gun, and it roared like a
thunder clap. The soldier dropped heavily in his tracks.

Kin turned and raced down the mountain. Most of the mountaineers had
discharged the single shot that their rifles held, and there had been no
time to reload. Kin leaped over a rock and landed almost beside Coonie.
But in passing he saw that Coonie had not merely stumbled; there was a
dark bullet-hole in the gay, reckless mountaineer's forehead. It seemed
a ridiculously small thing to have stolen from Coonie the abundant life
that had been his.

Reed Bowie, one of the few men on the frontier who could reload a
Kentucky rifle while running, turned and made a snap-shot from his hip.
Kin heard one of the pursuing British grunt, and the little noises made
by his falling body. Kin tried to coax more speed from his flying legs.
The British, with their thrusting bayonets that could easily pierce a
man's body, must be very close. Kin fingered the empty pistol, and let
it dangle at his side while he ran on. He was to be killed in a moment.
But, if he had had his own rifle in his hands instead of the pistol, he
could have killed Lieutenant Allaire and contributed that much to the
battle. As it was, he had done nothing save climb to the top of the
mountain and run back down. That was all he would have for his long
march. Anger that this should be so began to drive away some of his
panic. He slowed a little, and began to plan how he could throw himself
to the ground, let whoever might be pursuing him closest trip over his
prostrate body, and try a hand-to-hand fight.

Then, almost at the bottom of the hill, buckskinned men stepped suddenly
from behind trees or rose from the rocks where they had found
concealment. Shelby, a wise campaigner and an efficient leader, had
expected this bayonet charge and prepared for it. Only a part of his
company had advanced up the mountain. The rest had stayed hidden at the
bottom, and a half hundred fresh riflemen met the British charge there.

Kin stopped, panting, while he poured a charge of powder into the pistol
and rammed a ball down its muzzle. Reed Bowie had shot again, and was
reloading behind a tree. Kin saw Ian creeping toward a rock from which
he might have a better shot. A great rifle fire came from all other
sides of the hill. Cleveland, Sevier, and Campbell were in the thickest
of the fight.

Tom Yeobright crept forward, shot, and dropped down to reload. Kin
sought the shelter of a tree, and shot at a red coat that showed a
hundred yards up the mountain. But once more the bullet only kicked up
dust twenty yards short of its target. Through the heavy smoke that
curled and twisted among the trees, Kin tried to spy out a closer enemy
target. Unless he could find one he was of no use whatever. The pistol
was accurate only at very short ranges.

The British were fighting as they retreated, one half kneeling to shoot
while the other half went a little way farther and reloaded. Then they,
in turn, covered the retreat of their comrades. But the mountain men
were pursuing them, following Shelby's advice to use the Indian tactics
they knew so well, slipping from tree to tree and never showing
themselves. The mountaineers' buckskins blended in with the brush and
rocks, while the scarlet uniforms of the British were bright marks in
the somber forest. Kin saw a huge dragoon stagger and fall on his rifle.
Kin swerved toward him. But, when he reached the soldier's body, he saw
that blood had spurted from a gaping wound in the man's side to drench
his powder horn and bullet pouch. Kin went on without the rifle,
swallowing hard.

Twice more the mountaineers gained the summit of the mountain, and at
the point of bayonets were driven back down it. They turned to storm
Kings Mountain for the third time, and Kin knew then that they were
going to win this battle.

He knew it in spite of the fact that Henry Wayne, dragging his right leg
and supporting himself on his arms, came crawling down the mountain
side. In spite of Captain Ingam, of Shelby's company, who was staring
thirstily at a small spring that his smashed hip prevented him from
reaching. In spite of Coonie, who never again would smell the fresh
winds blowing from the mountain tops or thrill to another deer hunt. How
many more of those who had marched over the mountains to die on his puny
lump of earth that would have been dwarfed by any of their own
mountains, Kin didn't know. But he still knew that the Rebels were going
to win this battle.

For the British were tiring. Three times they had charged down the
mountain and been forced back. And they were bewildered, too. According
to the rules by which they fought, the victory was theirs. The Rebels
had been fairly driven from the field, flitting like shadows before the
bayonet charges and always avoiding direct combat. But, when they
reached the bottom of the hill and found time to reload their rifles,
the shadows became men who shot with such deadly precision that few who
were seen over their sights escaped being hit. And the mountaineers
always climbed back up the mountain almost as swiftly as they fled
down.

The precise, exact timing that Patrick Ferguson had so painfully drilled
into his troops was lagging too. Kin heard Lieutenant Allaire trying to
hearten his men, urging them to turn and fight, and they did their best
to divide and cover each other's retreat up the mountain. But the
continuous fire from below them was too deadly and too steady. In the
last third of the ascent the British turned to run, and the Rebel army
was almost at their heels when for the third time in an hour they
regained the summit of Kings Mountain.

Kin dropped behind the same Spanish oak that had sheltered him on the
first ascent, and looked out at the British camp. British and Tory
soldiers, who had formed a solid square about the mountain's rim, were
running back, turning to fire, and running again. From all about came
the spiteful cracking of long rifles. By sheer coincidence the troops
under Campbell, McDowell, and Sevier, had reached the summit almost at
the same time as Shelby's men. Ferguson's army was trapped on the
narrow, treeless summit.

A once-trim lieutenant, whose natty uniform now clung in shreds to his
body, held up a stick with a strip of white cloth tied to the end of it.
But another man, who wore a checked shirt and bestrode a beautiful white
Arab mare, rode up to the one who would have surrendered. His sword
flashed, and the white flag tumbled to the ground. A great cheer rose
from the British regulars, and a dozen bullets whistled past the man on
the Arab mare. Kin's breath caught in his throat. Nearly the entire
Rebel army had witnessed that act of Patrick Ferguson, who could pillage
Whigs and hang prisoners, but who would not raise a white flag.

Even now the British regulars were not disorganized. They maintained
their ranks and waited for orders from their superiors. Only the Tory
militia were uncertain and ready to break.

The white Arab mare flashed in and out among the troops. Then, for a
bare second, Patrick Ferguson was entirely alone. He rode his horse to
the top of a small promontory, and sat perfectly motionless. Everything
about him bespoke contempt for these enemies whom he had so nearly
mastered, and whom he knew were about to master him. Patrick Ferguson
drew his sword, whirled it about his head, and at full gallop bore down
on the mountain men who surrounded him. Two other British officers
spurred from the ranks to gallop at his side. From Ferguson's lips came
the battle cry that had guided his whole life, and that he would not
abandon in death.

"Huzza for King George!"

Tanse Willard and Reed Bowie shot at almost the same second. But a dozen
other rifles spoke with theirs. Ferguson jerked backward, as though
struck by an invisible club, and for a moment sat rigidly in the saddle.
Then he swayed limply to one side, and sprawled to the ground. The white
mare stopped, and swung around to stand with her head over her master's
body.

Kin stared in fascinated horror at this thing that a thousand mountain
men had sworn would come to pass. Patrick Ferguson, the great Tory
leader, was dead.

A sharp volley came from the assembled mountaineers, and more of the
British fell. But another white flag, held by a tall officer with a
bloody bullet gash down the side of his cheek, was waving now. Shelby,
Sevier, and Campbell strode forward, and Shelby's fierce voice blasted
every Tory-hating Whig's rifle into silence.

"They have surrendered! Only cowards shoot now!"

Kin joined the breathless over-the-mountain men who crowded forward at
their officers' heels. The British captain who held the white flag of
surrender walked forward to meet them. He withdrew his sword from its
sheath, and extended it hilt first to Colonel Campbell.

"My sword, Sir. I am Captain DePeyster, in command now."

Campbell was flushed with victory, but his manner expressed no hate for
the British officer, nothing save the respect that one fighting man must
feel for another. Only in Ferguson's eyes had the white flag been a
coward's mark. The British had no choice but to surrender, or be shot
down where they stood.

Campbell said, "Thank you, Captain. You gave us a stiff fight."

Captain DePeyster's smile could not conceal the crushing heartbreak that
he felt.

"We tried, Sir. But, in spite of Major Ferguson's faith in this
position, it proved more assailable with the rifle than defensible with
the bayonet."

Kin was staring at the prisoners.

In a sudden rush of boldness he walked toward them and touched an
officer on the arm.

"I'll take my rifle back now."

Lieutenant Allaire's dirty, discouraged face broke into a tired grin.

"What ho! The young McKenzie! I should have hanged ye back there on the
Santaree, eh?"

Kin said stubbornly, "All I want is the rifle."

"And you seem in a position to get it," Lieutenant Allaire said drily.
"Take good care of it, young McKenzie. The whole British army could not
boast a finer weapon."

Kin curved his fingers about the breech of his gun, and walked back to
where a group of the over-the-mountain men were watching the further
disarming and organization of the prisoners. Isaac Shelby detached
himself from the Whig officers and walked toward them, wiping his
forehead with a huge bandana.

"Lively little scrummage," he said thoughtfully. "Any of you fellas git
hurt?"

"Nope," a laconic mountaineer said. "Jest two-three bullet creases."

Tom Yeobright turned around and extended his hand awkwardly.

"Well, Ike, we ketched Ferguson. So long."

"So long, Tom." Isaac Shelby shook the extended hand warmly. "Give 'em
my best when ye git back over the mountains."

"I'll do that."

Tom Yeobright walked slowly to the edge of the mountain, and from
everywhere on the battlefield other mountaineers converged to join him.
Kin stood where he was, and watched a hundred and fifty of them descend
Kings Mountain. They had marched incredible distances to get here, and
were taking back only suffering and heartbreak. There would be grief in
lonely cabins on the Nolachucky and Watauga for the mountain men who
would never return. Homes on the seaboard would mourn the Tory dead. And
in England windows would be darkened for the British soldiers who had
died on Kings Mountain.

But Kin knew that other things had happened here, too. The mountaineers
had given their lives to keep their valleys free. They had broken the
threat of Ferguson, and had given their fellow Rebels precious time to
gather strength against Cornwallis. And their actions had given proof
that they would come again, and again, if need be. But now they were
going home.

When the last westward-bound mountaineer had disappeared, Kin took his
own rifle and went to find Ian. There was still work to be done
here--right now there were prisoners to be taken care of. After that
there might be more battles. But this job would end some time, and when
it did he, too, would go back over the mountains. He would find Red
Scott. And he'd bet that, between the two of them, they'd be the best
pair of long hunters that the west had ever seen.

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

    Big Red
    Irish Red
    Stormy
    Wild Trek
    Snow Dog
    Haunt Fox
    Lion Hound
    Desert Dog
    Outlaw Red
    Rebel Siege
    Fire-Hunter
    Forest Patrol
    Kalak of the Ice
    Buckskin Brigade
    Boomerang Hunter
    Trailing Trouble
    A Nose for Trouble
    Wildlife Cameraman
    Chip, the Dam Builder
    Wolf Brother
    Hidden Trail


[The end of _Rebel Siege_ by Jim Kjelgaard]